


Misery Black

by malakai



Series: In a World of Stone [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Demons, Djinni & Genies, Elves, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Kaer Morhen, Mages, Multi, Smut, Vampires, Werewolves or something like it, Witcher smut, sages - Freeform, the wild hunt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-07-28 11:21:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 40,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16240574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malakai/pseuds/malakai
Summary: Part I: Driven out of Toussaint in her cursed form, Laz arrives at Kaer Morhen remembering nothing. With a new name and a slew of new friends, she attempts to start what she believes is a new life, one at a witcher's side while they band together to lift her lycanthropic affliction. Except... removing a curse is never that easy. In fact, it'll be the least of her problems.Part II: Nameless, abandoned, and unloved. Only a few of many things that describes Misery. Found nearly in a feral state, a hunter by the name of Royal Black raises her on the wild edges of Ban Gleann. From there much of the enigmatic child is revealed. While she blooms into a woman, her disposition, and what she needs to survive become apparent. Misery does not feed like humans, but like a beast.  While she matures, carving her own careful path under Royal's tutelage, her future looks manageable, but bloody. Until an equal bloody past comes from beyond the grave to declare her heritage unto the world.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to In a World of Stone. And while it will eventually split off and follow a new female OC and ship[Dettlaff/OC], it's recommended to read the first series so you have a better understanding of what's happening, who's who, and why.
> 
> Like IaWoS, it's rated M for language, adult situations, sexuality, and gore.

In the cavernous hall of Kaer Morhen, Ciri was too late. The white wolf that had wandered into her presence was near its end. In an alarming series of shudders and death throes, the body rippled and seized, flexing and contracting with such severity, the flesh split spraying blood and the bones snapped apart.

In all her life, the witcheress had never seen anything like it. And she'd seen and endured a _great_  deal.

Stepping back, full rapt by the unfolding horror, she considered bringing her sword down against its neck, but perverse curiosity prevented her from moving any closer. The large maw traced in finger-long fangs open wide and blew a horrible sound that rose the tiny hairs on her neck. It coughed, spitting up a pulp gore and body parts.

_No, not just parts. A whole hand. A pale, human hand._

Then it moved, sending Ciri's stomach into a whirl of sickness. It flexed its slick fingers and palmed the dusty floor, seeking purchase as though to  _pull itself out._ There was more than just a hand, but a wrist and a forearm, maybe even an elbow, stuck in the animal’s throat. The wolf's eyes rolled and bulged from its sockets, chest heaving and shuddering and until, finally, with a pronounced squelch and series of wet cracks, the chest cavity split open and a human body fell out.

Ciri couldn't move, couldn't believe. She took another step back.

Coated in blood like a newborn, the woman groaned and coughed as she worked her new lungs to suck in the cold air. Steam drifted off her skin, mixing in the moldy smell of Kaer Morhen, adding iron and… peaches?

Ciri thought of something to say, something to alert the woman she wasn't alone and that Ciri had just watched her  _break_ out of a wolf's carcass. But there were no words suitable for such an occasion. Fortunately, it seemed to Ciri, as a bad case of lycanthropy. The worst part was over.

So she walked around until the woman could view her. Panting softly, the sound of Ciri's steps opened her eyes. Like the wolf's, hers did not match. Her hair, bone-white, if not for the gore she'd been born from, clumped around her head in a wet tangle. Her bare skin was tan, but not dark enough to be from Zerrakania. More like a woman who liked to bathe beneath the sun, leaving her with a warm, summer tone. Aside from her entry into Ciri's acquaintanceship, there was nothing else significant or worthy of noting.

"Can you hear me?" Ciri asked, maintaining her sword at the low ready.

The woman could barely keep her eyes open as if the gorey exodus took enough out of her.

"Can you speak?"

The woman closed her eyes, and with effort, rasped a horrible noise. Brows furrowed, she tried again and fell into a fit of coughing.

* * *

Ciri cleaned her up. Thanks to time spent with Yennefer, she knew a long hot bath with quality soaps and oils could lift even the most dismal of spirits. Afterward, the woman did look significantly better. Her was combed and braided neatly. She was dressed and now she sat quietly along the wooden table in the kitchen while a stew bubbled in the cauldron.

Unable to speak, perhaps due to her new body, the woman kept her head down for the most part. Whether because she was tired and couldn't stay awake, or she was in a lot of pain. For now, Ciri didn't plague her with questions as she cooked. The silence wasn't comfortable. It was strange and unwelcoming. Werewolves don't normally shift without a full moon. Not only was it a new moon night, but also, they don't shift  _like that._

Ciri concluded she couldn't have been a werewolf.

While her head was down, Ciri strode from the kitchen corner and headed for one of the many bookshelves teeming with illustrations and chronicles depicting monsters and their characteristics. The cauldron churned and bubbled, filling the air with a warm musky fragrant of boar, spices, and red potatoes.

However, nothing in the archives described to Ciri what she'd just witnessed. Perhaps no such tome existed. A hybrid of the sort? An uncharted, undiscovered entity? If the witcher's library didn't have it, who would?

She returned, drawing two earthenware bowls and spoons, going through the motions. Supplying black ale to cool their stomachs, Ciri and her singular guest quietly dug in.

The woman took two very careful bites before she stopped, pushing the bowl away. She rested her forehead back onto the table, wrapping her arms around her narrow midsection. Judging by the condition she first appeared in, it was likely she wasn't hungry, maybe even too tired to eat. Likely enough the wolf could have eaten something that wasn't sitting well in the stomach or worse, obtained a parasite. Whatever the cause, Ciri had all types of herbs, tonics, and remedies to clear the gut of any toxins and foreign bodies. But then the woman pressed a hand over her mouth and her shoulders twitched. Jumping up, Ciri grabbed a bucket and hurried just as the girl retched. Boar and potatoes was a heavy meal even for the hearty. What else could she feed her? Swapping the black ale out for apple juice, she offered small bites of bread, which appeared easier to keep down.

* * *

The next day, Ciri waited for her guest to wake. Sleeping soundly in the tower of Kaer Morhen, the better part of the day and evening went by. The sun dipped beyond the Blue Mountains, burning the peaks in liquid gold refracted off the swept snow. To keep herself busy, Ciri rummaged about, wetting her swords, playing with her daggers. Repaired her boots and hummed while she read. Still, there was nothing she could find about an aggressive line of lycanthropy. She didn't know where else to look.

At length, the woman awoke, padding quietly down the spiral stairs that led from the tower to the great hall. Ciri looked up from her  _riveting_  chapter and smiled when she entered the bottom floor.

"How are you feeling?" Ciri closed the book.

"Better," the woman croaked, then glanced about.

 _So the lass finally found her voice._ A silence stretched between the women. They could have been sisters, or at the very least, cousins by the hair alone. While Ciri was pale, the stranger was not. That and their eyes were very different.

Not one to mill about the subject, Ciri dove right in. But where to begin?

"What's your name?" she asked, deciding on something simple.

For a moment, the woman thought about it as if she couldn't remember the last time someone asked her that. Her white brow furrowed, eyes searching the floor as if the answer could be hidden within the cracks or under a withered leaf.

"I… I don't know," she muttered, taking a seat opposite from Ciri before the fire. A bowl of fruit, fresh bread, and ale awaited them. Memory loss wasn't surprising. Those cursed by lycanthropy often couldn't recall their whereabouts amidst the change but rarely did they actually forget  _their names._ An aggressive strain, no doubt.

"Very well," the witcheress smiled, "My name is Cirilla, but I prefer Ciri, for short."

"Nice to meet you, Ciri," the girl smiled faintly, but that too vanished as she fell into reflection. She looked up towards the ceiling where the shadows hovered beyond the candlelight, to the kitchen fire lapping and crackling, to her own hands and whispered, "I can't remember anything. I can't even remember how I got here…"

Their eyes met and within the summer-wheat and sky-blue stare, there was confusion and desperation peering behind weakening resolve; Ciri believed her.

"You can't remember nothing at all?" the witcherss queried gently. "You must have at least a  _last_ recollection."

"I think," the stranger touched her own face, threading her fingers into her long hair where she clutched it tightly. "That I've done something wrong, that I'm running from something or someone."

A relatable thing.

"You're safe here," Ciri leaned in, meeting eyes once more. She pulled away and slid the bowls of the food before them. "For now, let's fill our bellies and worry about it later."

They ate quietly and for a moment Ciri suspected a new norm approaching until her guest lurched in her seat and threw up everything within her.

Ciri was no expert, not by a long shot. She wasn't the best witcher either, nor would she ever claim to be. But she'd been in this predicament before. Fleeing from something or someone, hiding from the Wild Hunt while her cursed Elder Blood betrayed her every time she tapped into it. Though this girl wasn't suffering the exact scenario, she was running and she was hiding. It was all too familiar, plucking an empathic chord inside Ciri she couldn't ignore. Firstly, they needed a sorceress.

Ciri helped her clean up and used finding her clean new clothes as an excuse to visit the tower privately, which she fully intended to provide garb, but only after she fired up the megascope. If she were right, then this circumstance was beyond her scope of knowledge. Complicated magic was at work and since her time in the desert, the most of her magic was out of reach.

The image of Triss Merigold blurred before her and the distorted cheer filtered through the rippling fissure.

"Triss," Ciri began before the redhead's excitement distracted the purpose of her call. "I have a situation."

"Oh?" Triss took a seat and crossed her legs. "I'm all ears."

Ciri did her best to relay the circumstances. From the moment the woman arrived as animal, to her memory loss, to even her sickness. The cruel strain of lycanthropy subjected to her, sparing no gruesome detail.

"Strange," Triss mused. "How was she able to find Kaer Morhen if she's never been there?"

"Not sure, but she mentioned running from something or someone. I think it's whoever cursed her."

"Perhaps she's a fugitive and she's feigning ignorance to earn your trust and hospitality."

Ciri shrugged, "Could very well be, but she came empty-handed, unarmed, and without even a shirt on her back. I think if she wanted to harm me, she'd turn into a wolf. And like any other animal, wolves can die."

"Hmmm, I don't know. Last night was a new moon. Typically werewolves aren't capable of transforming even with a sliver of it present, much less completely missing from the sky. Find out what her most recent memory is, and go from there." Triss stood, gathering her fiery hair at the base of her neck. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

The distorted image of the sorceress rippled like a stone tossed into the depths before vanishing, leaving Ciri alone in the silence. It was always something, she thought. Coming to Kaer Morhen at this time of year was an effort to bring the academy back to life. All the schools across the continent no longer taught and therefore the guild was dying. Less and fewer witchers remained. There was Geralt, Ciri, Eskel, and Lambert. Several others, though, that weren't worth mentioning and certainly wouldn't agree to come here, to Kaedwen to serve any school other than the one they represented.

Ciri headed back down the great hall where she found her guest curled up before the fire, fast asleep along a cot she dragged from nearby. This situation was entirely bizarre. If her assumption was correct about the woman and her condition, perhaps she was running from a very dark circumstance. Had she been compromised? Maybe that explained the memory loss as a way for her body and mind to cope.

Fortunately, there was no better place to lift a curse than Kaer Morhen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Triss arrives at Kaer Morhen to learn more about its new guest. Eskel and Lambert run into Ciri to deliver news from the Duchess of Toussaint.

Triss Merigold took a portal from Skellige to Kaedwen and made it to Kaer Morhen on horseback just before dusk. The witcher's stronghold was as she remembered it: vast, empty, hauntingly beautiful with damage still sustained from their stand against the Wild Hunt-while every artifact, book, and weapon lying about reminded her of him. However, she wasn't here for Geralt even if that didn't stop her from thinking about him and it wasn't like she would ever learn.

Entering the keep, Ciri and her guest were found thawing themselves before the kitchen hearth. It seemed every time Triss visited, that hearth blazed eternally, panging her heart with pricks of nostalgia. Ciri paced quietly while the mystery girl in question rested along a cot.

Just as keen as the witchers before her, Ciri paused mid-step and assessed the darkness, looking through and into Triss.

They waited, conversing softly and at last, the stranger awoke. Rising from slumber as a weary soul from a night of heavy drinking, barely able to hold herself up. Trembles and chills came in successive waves, rattling her teeth. Ribbons of dull white hair concealed her face as she hung her head, attempting to stay awake. Ciri was right. Whatever the girl consumed whilst a wolf was taking its toll on her body. The sorceress approached carefully, making herself known

"My name is Triss Merigold," she smiled gently, coming around to kneel next to the cot. "I've come here to help you remember." The woman lifted her eyes, startling Triss with their mismatching colors. Triss stared into each pool, sensing two different beings looking back. None of which were the woman before her. Suppressing a chill, she smiled again and said, "Tell me what's the last thing you can recall?"

"Only a dream," the woman replied softly, reflecting. "I'm standing in frigid waters, but I can't get close enough to see what's awaiting me beyond the bank." Another chill coursed through her and right at that time Ciri emerged and draped a wool blanket over her shoulders.

"What does that island look like?" Triss asked.

The woman gathered the blanket around her, staring past the sorceress and into the fire. "Overgrown, neglected. There's a tower, but no one's been inside it for some time. It's infested with rats; though I can't see them, I can hear them."

Triss and Ciri shared a glance. There were hundreds of islands that possessed a tower of some sort. Lighthouses, observatories, the like. Separating one from the other, especially one mentioned so vaguely, was impossible.

"I know that I must reach the shore, " she continued. "Someone awaits me beyond it but I can't seem to move my legs or pull myself out of the icy water. I can only stand there until I go numb."

Triss eased down onto the edge of the cot. "Tell me about the wolf."

The girl stiffened, glared into the fire. After a moment, she took a deep, quivering breath, and released it slowly.

"It protects me," she muttered. "Somehow, in some way, it's there to keep me safe. I don't know anything else."

"You don't remember your name? Who your parents were? Where you grew up?"

She shook her head.

"Very well!" Triss chirped, rubbing her hand together to warm them up. "I have an idea. May I?" She gestured to place her hands on either side of the girl's face. After a moment of hesitation, the stranger agreed.

"This might hurt a little," Triss warned. "But I promise to be as gentle as I can."

Brushing the tendrils of pale hair from the girl's face, Triss placed her hands on either side and focused. Magic welled up, coursing the sorceress' forearms, spreading through her fingertips threaded through the girl's hair and into her scalp. They closed their eyes simultaneously, listening.

Nothing. Utter blackness. Triss amped up the pressure a smidge. Even then, empty silence awaited her. No, not an emptiness─a wall. Something was blocking her ability to access the girl's mind, a spell of some sort and a powerful one. If not of the girl's own doing, then what? Who would do such a thing? Certainly not a primitive lycanthropy curse.

Triss released her and stepped back, thoughtful. "Strange." She'd seen this once before. During a time she studied at Aretuza.

"What did you see?" Ciri asked.

"Nothing. Something was blocking me. A common protection spell, but nonetheless a decent one. I couldn't find a way around it."

"Can't you force it to declare itself? Make it talk?"

"Not without hurting her."

"I don't mind," came a third voice.

Triss and Ciri both turned towards the cot where the white-haired guest huddled beneath her blanket. She looked so frail and lost. An actual stray, but Triss nor Ciri would ever say that aloud. The redhead shook her head. Even now, as the fire's glow danced a play of shadows across the girl's face, she was weary and pallid. No sense in violently rifling through someone's mind if they didn't necessarily have to.

* * *

The next day, Triss sent Ciri out to fetch supplies while she worked on the girl in private. Spells often worked in conjunction with their host, despite what most believed. The human will was a powerful source and, when coaxed correctly, could overcome even the most convoluted and nefarious of curses. A trust between Triss and her needed to be established and then, with the right guidance, trust within herself. If it worked, it would open the mental floodgates there were so tightly sealed.

In truth, Triss hoped this was just some complex form lycanthropy. A reverse one, perhaps, where the effects work against the lunar cycles. As a witcher once said, curses often played off irony. And how ironic would it be for a wolf to howl at no moon?

"We need a nickname for you," the sorceress muttered as she ran the comb through the long, wavy locks of white hair before weaving it all into a smooth braid. The girl said nothing and when Triss peaked from the side, saw her eyes were closed, sedated by the gentle ministrations. "I was thinking Luna. What do you think?"

They were in the tower, sitting on the edge of chamber's most ornate and lavishing bed available. Triss tried not to reflect of the times she slept in this bed as she combed the girl's hair, but she caught herself on several occasions seeking the telltale heartache: long, black strands of hair. Why did she always do this to herself?

"Hmm," the girl murmured, stirred awake. "Why Luna?"

Speaking of hair, Triss smoothed her hands down the length of the pale braid that fell down to the girl's lower back. "Because of your hair; it's as white as the moon."

She felt the girl smile, even if she didn't see it.

"I don't know," the girl mused. "I feel like that's a name for a horse or maybe a donkey."

Triss chuckled. "I suppose you're right. Well, what would you like to be called? I can't simply refer to you as girl, sounds too taciturn and detached, don't you think?"

"Yes, you are right." A quiet moment paused, filled with the dancing flames and crackling kindle. "Ingrid."

Triss smiled, curling the tail end of the white braid around her finger. "Yes, that fits you perfectly."

* * *

Ciri stepped out of the local apothecary and rooted to the ground. Ahead on horseback were faces she'd hoped to see later and not sooner. Sooner usually meant bad news but she was pleased nonetheless to see two of her favorite witchers.

Perched atop his signature black horse was Eskel and not far behind him, riding a white mare, was a smug Lambert. A smile crept onto her face as they approached. In turn, they did their best to return the pleasantries but it appeared difficult for the two. Something was wrong.

"Might want to take a look at this," Eskel said.

Bypassing any form of greeting, he procured a letter from his gambeson and handed it down to her when he brought his horse astride. The seal was broken, but the sigil pressed into the wax was unmistakable.

"A letter from the Duchess of Toussaint?" she unfurled the letter. It felt as if it'd been read over and over by the way it fell open easily. Her eyes raced across the fine penmanship, dated over a month ago. Ciri's hands began to shake the further she read on until she reached the end.

" _Geralt's in prison?_ "

There was more; something about conspiring with a blood-driven demon capable of shifting forms, but that hardly made any sense so she ignored it.

* * *

Now that she had a name, she felt a little more whole than before. _Ingrid_. She tasted the name over and over, prodding it with her tongue against the back of her teeth. It felt odd, like bed you couldn't find comfort in no matter how often you tossed or turned, but you had to make do.

With her hair cleaned, combed, and woven into a smooth braid, she certainly felt renewed, if not for the incessant hunger pangs that jabbed her inside like a dull knife. Why she wasn't able to hold anything down was beyond her. It was frustrating and nearly drove her to the edge of desperation. Perhaps when she was that...thing... that wolf...she ate something. A bad batch of berries or drank dirty pond water. Who knows? Certainly not she. Ingrid knew next to nothing. Hungry, lost, confused. How she washed up on the broken flagstone of Kaer Morhen was a mystery in of itself.

How she got here; where she was before; what led her to leave and why this looming sense of danger and paranoia? Ingrid escaped from something, that much she knew.

Thus far, Triss and Ciri─two women whose kindness transcended all the magic in the world─were willing to help every faltering step of the way. If she really considered it, things weren't looking too dismal. But then again, with her memory loss and this perpetual confusion, there wasn't much to compare to.

A roar erupted into the tower bedroom, startling Ingrid, while a brilliant green fissure split the space in two. Three figures emerged. First Ciri, and then two men she couldn't identify. Ingrid─having never beheld such a sight─flew to her feet and scrambled as far from the distortion as she could.

Triss stood casually, crossing her arms until the three were solid, tangible entities and the roaring split shrank until winking out of existence. The room was silent again but the air was charged.

"Please tell me there isn't trouble chasing you," Triss spoke to the group, unfazed.

"Merigold," the male with short brown hair snorted derisively. "What a pleasure."

"Triss," a taller, darker and longer haired male offered a nod. "Happened to run into Ciri on our way here."

"Did you know about this?" Ciri asked, crossing the room to jut a rolled up parchment towards Triss. She took the letter, unrolled it, and read its contents. Her features darkening the further she read on.

"No, I had no idea?" she glanced between the three, frowning. "Who gave this to you?"

"Eskel."

"But it was delivered to Lambert." Eskel corrected, "The messenger intercepted us on the way here, saw our eyes, swords. You know the drill."

Then Ingrid saw them too and her blood ran cold. Yellow, like snake venom, and slitted. The longer she stared at them, the more horrid they became until she forced herself to look away. For a moment, they argued with each other, occasionally shouting, perpetually cursing, and casting their cat eyes in Ingrid's direction when they could. Neither Ciri or Triss seemed interested in introducing her and that was fine.

She hunkered down onto the cold floor, drawing her knees in to rest her chin on. From here, the bed was directly to her right and blocked the view. None of them could look at her now and that felt a bit better. It wasn't just their strange eyes that made her uncomfortable, Triss and Ciri looked at her in the same way and there was nothing wrong with their pupils. It's just... in a sense she was a stranger. Not only to  _them_ but herself as well. She barely knew what she looked like and when others turned their gazes to her, it made her wonder with frightening uncertainty: what do they see?

"And who is that?" one of the men asked. The taller, less taciturn one.

The arguing suddenly ceased and all eyes were on the top of Ingrid's head─the only part they could see.

"That is...," Ciri began, unsure.

"Ingrid," Triss finished with confidence. When she looked over her shoulder with a smile, Ingrid lifted her head a little higher and smiled back.

* * *

The five went back down to the great hall for lunch. Triss was an excellent cook if Ingrid went off the scent alone. Everything smelled nice and looked appetizing if she could only keep it down.

Along the dining table, she waited, for certain she was useless and if not, she didn't know where to begin with helping. It was best to remain out of the way. The two men had disappeared into the wilderness and only half an hour passed before they returned with game and other provisions in tow. Rabbits, sun perch, roots, and berries.

Ingrid's stomach gurgled at an unnecessary volume. She hunched down to quiet it. The nicer of the two men sat next to her.

"My name is Eskel." He held out a large hand. Ingrid could only stare at him. With tousled brown hair and a scar running the length of his face, it left a portion of his mouth disfigured. She couldn't tell if he was smiling or if it was the scar's interference.

"You're supposed to shake it," grumbled the other male as he cleaved the heads from their catches. He also had a scar. So did Ciri and all three carried two swords. What could they need two swords for? One in each hand? Why the scars? Why the eyes?

Ingrid obliged, placing her hand into his. His fingers closed around and strange dry-stretch enveloped her skin, crawling up her arms like a fire's warmth. She snatched her hand back and looked her arm over. There was nothing to see and the sensation vanished. She grabbed his hand again, yanking off the worn fingerless glove and squeezing it between hers as if she could ring it out. The sensation returned, seeping through her skin and muscle, resonating through her bones.

Ingrid looked up curiously, but Eskel eyes portrayed nothing as he brought his hand back and replaced his glove.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pair of strangers meet in the tower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, so many updates. But why? you ask. Well, this story isn't so much about her, but someone else. We all know who she is anyway. *brandishes sword!*

Ingrid paced in the tower back and forth until she was certain she wore a path into the floor. She was expecting someone and with that came straining her ears. Every draft that slithered through the stones sounded like drifting voice. The settling of the foundation knocked and groaned, feigning footsteps that sent Ingrid's heart leaping into her chest. She kept glancing at the door expectantly. Dusk came. The warm gloom of twilight conjured shadows that lured plaintive howls into their depths. Then night fell and prowled and stalked. Ingrid waited, and paced. Why was she so anxious? She pinched the bridge of her nose and turned on her heel. Paced.

There was no reason for her to feel this way. She neither hinted nor requested a visit from anyone. But tonight, she would not sleep. When she did she was back in those icy waters, watching the island beneath a seething storm. Something horrible awaited her. A thing or person she didn’t want to see, but must. It was imperative that she see. However, so long as she remained offshore, she was safe from whatever doom awaited her.

As she paced, the vanity mirror across the room demanded her attention. Captured by the reflection, she marched over and took a seat along a small cushioned stool. An array of wavy, untamed white hair framed a tan face. Her peculiar eyes watched warily, untrusting what they saw and making no attempt to hide the discomfiture they felt. Something moved, shifting her eyes to the right of her countenance.

There in the doorway, seen through the reflection, stood the figure she'd been waiting for.

Ingrid twisted around, wide eyed with intrigue. Her prayers had been answered, bleeding away all the worry that what she had felt was only in her head.

"Hello," her voice was small, but steady.

"Hello." Eskel pushed off the frame, coming further into the tower and taking a seat at one of the tables. He leaned back, stretching his long legs out. "You look like you could use some company."

She felt herself nodding, stuck to the small ornate stool, unable to look away from his reptilian eyes or the length of his scar. He kept his focus on her as she finally stood, finding function of her legs, and walked over. Before coming to the tower, he'd discarded his swords, the daggers, and most of the hardened leather and mail, leaving a worn tunic, distressed breeches, and weathered riding boots. His studded, fingerless gauntlets were also gone and the sleeves of his tunic had been rolled back, revealing even more scars.

She came to slow stop before him, searching for something in his face and eyes. Reading her, Eskel held out a bare hand. _What is this?_ she wondered but what a silly thing to think; they had shared something in the hall. Carefully, she took it and at once, the enveloping dry-stretch coursed her skin, reminding her of a welcoming warmth and sunshine. She sank to her knees, pressing his rough palm into her cheek and savoring the strange but pleasant sensation. If she could just remain here at his feet, if time could stop and allow her an endless moment to _feel_ and _enjoy_ , she would be grateful. But time wouldn’t wait for anyone. 

Seconds turned to minutes, and the minutes went on until she got an idea. Looking up, Eskel watched her curiously but made no indication that he was disturbed or even remotely off put by her behaviour. Very well then. She crawled into his lap. Draping her legs on either side of his hips, she pulled him into a firm embrace. He made no objections and accepted this change with stride. His scent filled her lungs. Leather; the woods after a rain. And that strange, addicting resonance that turned her bones into mush. She needed this—whatever it was; she fed from it like blossoming flower sought the sun.

* * *

 

Ingrid awoke in Eskel’s arms the next day. The constant thrum of magic resonating through her staved off any sense of panic or start. Sedated, warm, safe. They were wrapped together like lovers, legs entwined, embracing amidst the sprawling bed and tangled sheets. Fully clothed, sans Eskel had kicked off his boots sometime during the night. Ingrid wore a sleeping gown.

She inhaled his scent greedily, rode the gentle continuous waves that coursed through him and filtered into her. It was nice—very nice. She hadn't felt this light in spirit since she arrived to Kaer Morhen.

He was already awake, running his fingers through the baby hairs at her temple. Most of her hair he'd been smoothed away from her face, trailing along the pillow like a white flame. Ingrid mumbled to herself, refusing to wake.

"They're making breakfast in the hall, if you're hungry," his voice rumbled in his chest.

Of course she was hungry. She never wasn't. It was about keeping the food down that concerned her. These constant pangs that jabbed her insides were the reason she was so tired.

Cracking open her eyes, she scanned his face so close to hers, then followed the jagged scar until she met his stare. He watched her. With visible reluctance, Ingrid detached herself and turned away. A medley of conflict clouded her mind. She felt trapped here, looking around the tower's confinement. No, not here. She touched her chest where her frenetic heart thrummed like a caged animal. Here.

"How do I not remember who I am?" she whispered mostly to herself but Eskel moved behind her then she felt the coveted shiver of warmth descend her back where he placed his hand.

"Is that why you're here?" he asked, which meant neither Triss or Ciri had explained the nature of their strange guest. Even stranger that an unspoken lure brought Ingrid and Eskel into such close proximity. Did he even know her name? Ingrid chuckled darkly; she didn't even know her name.

"Why are your eyes like that?" she sought to change the subject. Facing her circumstances was like standing on the edge of a very deep, dark void.

"Part of the mutation process witchers undergo. Does it bother you?"

"Yes," she said and then quickly, "No. Nothing about _you_ bothers me."

A solemn stretch of silence encompassed them. A comfortable quietness between a man trying to understand and a woman who wished to be understood.

"Let's take a walk," Eskel said. "Think the fresh air could do us some good."

* * *

  
In his full lethal regalia, they stole quietly out of the keep, avoiding the great hall where Lambert and Ciri heckled each other while Triss watched.  
"Early bird gets the worm," Eskel whispered with a smile, holding open a door that lead out into the rear portion of the fortress. She followed him across the courtyard towards a break in the stone wall. He held her hand steadily as she stepped over the broken rubble, led her down a steep and narrow path against the hillside. The decline was sharp and jagged, carving to and fro between the earth and rock. Several times Ingrid had to crouch down onto her butt to maneuver the path, Eskel held up his arms incase she slipped and fell, then he could catch her.

By the time they reached the bottom where a clear river fed into the lake, Ingrid was winded. Having barely eaten for the passing days, her body was struggling to push through even the most sedentary activity, much less descend a mountain. There was a small shed shored up against the bank, a narrow dilapidated dock, and a moored boat that appeared to be used frequently. Eskel took her hand as they sloshed through the soggy shore then helped her climb inside the small craft. He followed in after her, untethering the rope and pushing off the pier with a boot. They drifted out, disturbing the smooth lake just as the sun peered over the mountains.

  
"You're right," Ingrid closed her eyes, filling her lungs with the cool, dewy air. She looked around at the steep terrain, the natural stillness of a foggy morning, at the witcher before her. "This is nice. Thank you."

  
Eskel smiled with ease. "You're welcome."

 They gazed at one another for a moment. The longer she stared, the harder it became to lower the smile he'd given her. She looked off into the distance. At the surface of the lake, the ascending mountain; the snowy peaks. Anywhere but him.

  
"Are all witchers this nice?" she asked suddenly.

  
"No," he laughed. "Some are much like Lambert."

  
Ingrid scrunched up her nose. He need not say more.

  
“What about the scars?” She was curious.

  
Eskel pulled the oars in and placed them down at their feet. “Part of the territory,” he said. “If a witcher can finish his first contract without getting slapped around, more power to him but eventually…” He smirked his snarled lip. Any other moment, it would have been a disturbing sight, but Ingrid found her heart pounding against her ribs.

  
“And Ciri? Is she a witcher, too?”

  
He nodded.

  
“Witchers,” Ingrid murmured, watching their wake disrupt the lake’s glassy surface. “What do they do?”

  
“Pest control, more or less. “

A thump hit the boat, startling the small crew of two. Eskel pressed a finger to his scarred mouth and told her to be quiet. The thump came again, harder this time, then another and another. _Just wait_ , he mouthed, _It'll go away_. Despite herself, she peered over the edge. The water rippled, bouncing off the side of the boat as she saw through the surface. 

A face; a blue, bloated visage peered right back.

  
Ingrid lurched back just as a webbed hand shot out of the surface, catching her by the hair, and yanked. The boat jerked violently, tossing her over the edge. A splash and then the frigid lake swallowed her whole. Ingrid couldn't scream but the desire was there, high in her throat. Fighting the slick fist that pulled her down was in vain, but she tried. Desperately. The sun now glittered over the lake, a dancing, mocking blot of white shimmer beside the boats silhouette. Another shadow separated from it, plunging into the surface. The witcher.

  
Something sharp whizzed past her, so close its fin sliced her cheek open. Her lungs burned, now her face. Blood bloomed brilliant against the morning light. Not a fish, an arrow. Another shot past, leaving a wake of tiny bubbles before embedding into the neck of whatever water creature held her. It garbled a scream, releasing the fistful of her hair.

  
And then her bones snapped, spine rippled like a cracking whip. The fist in her hair let go and soon, Eskel's arms came around her. Her lungs fluttered, desperate for air. She sucked in water, choked on it, then blood surged up, unable to separate reason from the blind animalistic will to survive. The surface was too far; she wasn't going to make it. Blood bloomed around her nose and mouth, trailing behind like ribbons through the water.

Eskel came bursting out of the clear water. He swam fervidly until his boots hit the bottom of the lake, hauling him up and out of the waters and onto the mossy bank. Ingrid began to twitch and jerk. The fight to keep her from flailing from his hold brought him to his knees. She was going to fall and it was better she drop one foot than several. A mixture of water and frothy blood spilled over her mouth. Her hands pushed and pulled at him, still trying to swim, or free herself, he couldn't tell. He went to wipe the pink froth from her mouth but she wrenched out of his lap, throwing herself face down on the bank. Arms splayed, fingers digging into the pebbled beach, she hunched and writhed. Then an inhuman sound rose from deep within her throat, drawing the hairs upon Eskel's neck on end. A leg jerked and twisted. It faced the wrong way. The knee bent incorrectly. A foot dug into the soft shore, but it wasn't a foot; it was a paw and what was left of a foot.

  
Falling back onto his rump, Eskel watched with fascination as she began to tear herself apart.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eskel addresses the issue of their guest then takes matters into his own hands regarding Ingrid's curse.

skel bounded up the steep ascent, clearing protruding boulders, unstable craggy surfaces of the mountainside, and entered through the break in the wall near the backside of Kaer Morhen. He was quick, lithe, and not even sweating. The crunch of his boots relayed a firm, determined stride as he crossed the courtyard and entered the keep.

Marching through the door, he strode into the great hall with a bold and somewhat bewildered presence that demanded answers. They were all exactly where he left them.

"Mind explaining to me how the fuck our guest just  _melted_  into a fucking animal on the wrong moon?" He was still wet from not only the swim, but also covered in blood, lake grim, and more than a little pissed. Had the animal not rose up and scampered away, Eskel would have had no choice but to fight it. Werewolves weren't supposed to change without the moon present and more specifically,  _not like that_

The easy-going prattle stopped at once while all company turned an eye. None seemed too disturbed by his revelations. That told him it was old news; that he was the last to know. Triss made a betraying move by casting a glance towards Ciri which prompted Eskel to redirect his hard gaze.

"You look like you drank straight piss and vinegar," Lambert mumbled before tossing back the last dregs of his tankard.

Ciri sighed, dropping her head before she decided to address the issue. She stood, propping her hands on the table, and sought her words. "A type of curse claims her. Triss and I hope to lift it, but we could use your help."

Afterward, the three combined their efforts and scoured the keep's archives. As for Eskel, he took to the woods determined to find her or wait. Initially, there was absolutely no waiting. He combed through the thicket, climbed for a vantage point and summoned his horse to cross the rivers and search the caves with his swords oiled for anything and everything hiding in its shadows. Eventually, he realized without tracks, she couldn't be found.

However, he wasn't entirely blind; he had a scent. A sweet fragrance that still stained his gambeson even now. Closing his eyes, Eskel breathed it in, memorized it. When he opened his amber eyes, the world was distorted, intensifying one sense over the rest.

He followed the fragrant trail of peaches.

* * *

While Lambert leafed through the register of curses lesser known by man and even more known to witchers, Ciri stared into the fire with her arms crossed. Triss was elbows deep in another shelf, tossing tomes and chronicles over her shoulder after a quick glance at their spines.

The sorceress snapped her fingers with a sudden gasp. "I know what we can do!" She stepped out between the shelves bright eyed and keen. "The same spell that released Avallac'h, do you remember it?" She was looking at Lambert.

The witcher grumbled a note about Yen being up his ass for the duration. Ciri glared at him. "But yes, I can recall it," Lambert said offhandedly. "Can't do it myself, though."

"Would you be capable of performing such an incantation?" Ciri turned away from the fire. "Seeing that it was difficult, even for Yennefer."

Triss tried to hide her wounded expression, but as redheads go, she had great difficulty.

* * *

Eskel found her, wasn't sure how he did it―mindless wandering perhaps. The deeper he wandered, the fainter the scent became. A fortunate thing too: to find her before Lambert hogtied her and dragged her back to Kaer Morhen. But, near the river bank, there stood an unnatural sized wolf drinking along the shore.

What Avallac'h underwent was invasive and debilitating procedure; a last resort if Eskel had any say. They took a small deformed invalid and unmade him, revealing the Aen Elle trapped within. The Wild Hunt's doing. However, there were other lesser demanding methods to peek beyond a curse to see what its inner workers were. Not only that, it also revealed what it was trying to hide without pain or the risk of death.

"Ingrid?" he called, sounding stupid. Looking it, as well. It heard him, flicking its ears back to listen without turning.

"Ingrid!" he tried again, louder this time. It flinched and lifted its head to cast a look over its bony shoulder. The witcher stopped moving, taking in the colorful, unmistakable eyes under the early daylight.  _How was this possible?_  The shift happened so fast and so gruesomely, he still had trouble wrapping his head around it. Not only that but in broad fucking daylight. An odd thing that.

The wolf flattened its ears as it turned away from the river and came to him. He didn't have to snap his fingers, whistle or bend its will through Axii. It sauntered over, coming  _eye-to-eye_ then leaned in to offer an experimental sniff. Once it was convinced Eskel was harmless, it yawned and sat on its haunches.

Eskel pulled the saddle off Scorpion and spread out the blanket rolled up in one of the bags. The wolf was licking its paws absently, pulling burrs from its worn pads. Paws as large as his head, the witcher realized. Removing his gauntlets and scabbards, he set them aside and peeled off his gambeson. How long it took for her to cycle through a shift was unknown. But Eskel was a patient man, like Geralt. And like Geralt, it was to a fault.

After drawing a fire, he knelt before it and meditated until the horrible sounds awoke him.

* * *

An unbearably bright world shined down on her face. She couldn't open her eyes right away. Why is it so bright? Cold pebbles dug into her naked frame as she shivered awake. A river churned nearby. She worked her fingers, moved her arms, wiggled her toes and made sure her knees could bend. Her taut skin was sticky from blood and gristle, entire body stiff and aching. A crunch of shifting rocks came from her right flank, a shadow engulfed her and then warm arms slipped beneath her, lifted her from the biting cold; an embrace filled with calming magic, a fragrance of leather and damp forest Ingrid knew. Without opening her eyes, she knew. The river grew louder.

A register of questions came and went. Some she could answer, others she could not and before she could voice them, the shock of the cold water sent her gasping. She clung to Eskel as he lowered them until the frigid waters splashed their chest. He was dressed down to his undergarments. The remains of his garb piled neatly along the bank next to a tethered horse.

He ran his hand over her shoulder and neck, cleaning away the gore, the mess, even staving off the hollow ache that ran the length of her spine. All it took was his touch to conjure a new, different ache in her chest that reached up to wrap a fist around her throat. Her eyes burned.  _Someone was there when I woke, I_   _wasn't alone._

This wrought emotion, foreign as it was unwarranted, flayed her wide open. The tears finally fell. He wiped those away too, keeping her close, keeping her warm despite the frigid river flowing around them. Ingrid finally opened her eyes to the bright world. She searched his face, traced the scar until it was locked away for her to dream of later. How he looked at her. How he held her. She clung tighter as the river glided around their bodies.

Then tilted her chin up and pressed her lips to his.

The water was no longer cold. Touching Eskel was one thing; kissing him was a different beast altogether. His brown hair was thick and soft between her fingers, the hardened planes of his muscle fit against her, made for her, and the way her lips brushed the scar at the corner of his disfigured mouth drew sounds deep within his chest. The saturated thrum of magic with every stroke of his tongue stopped her heart then shocked it back to life. Yes, it was one thing to touch the magic; it was another to  _taste it._

Ingrid had learned only a few things coming out of a shift. Predominantly that she was always blinded by fear, searching for someone to answer the most obvious question;  _Where am I? What happened?_  What awaited beyond her consciousness as she emerged from her own depth could have been anything.  _Anyone_. A fire, a war, a battle to survive.  _Another beast._  Such confusion, loss of senses and self-awareness took its toll. It weakens and frays the mind. To find Eskel waiting for her, to make sense of it all, seemed more than a monumental task. More pivotal in her time of dire need.

How strange. How lovely. How kind.

Not all witchers were like this, he said. But this one was and deserved to be kissed.

* * *

They did not return to Kaer Morhen as she expected. While Ingrid dried herself and slipped on his blouse, Eskel saddled up, draped a blanket over her from one of his bags, and rode south for several miles. His black mare took a steep path up, following the switchbacks with ease and comfort, indicating she had taken this route many times before, knowing where to place her hooves and conserving her energy for the more advanced ascents ahead.

It was a quiet and cold journey. As they ascended, the mountain whispered to them, seeping into their skin and forcing Ingrid to pull the wool blanket a little tighter around. She battled between asking where they were heading to or keeping quiet. She settled on the latter because, for reasons beyond her, whatever Eskel was up to it was within good judgment. He was a good person.

Gradually more snow collected on both sides of the pathway and a lesser amount of trees and vegetation awaited them. Rocks and craggy cliff faces rose up like crooked fangs. The wind worsened, tearing at her hair and blanket. She pressed into Eskel's back, shielding her faces from the biting gale.

When they finally reached their destination, Ingrid's stomach churned with fear icier than the winds bearing down on them. She stared into the black depths that signaled the end of their short journey; a cave's yawning maw.

"What is this?" she hissed, clutching the blanket tightly.

Eskel dismounted and reached up for her. She shrunk back, glaring at him with questions pouring from her eyes.

He frowned. "It's this or we strap you to the gurney and rip it out of you."

Considering his words, she drew very still, no longer feeling the cold, only the panic lancing through her. Her breaths, tiny puffs, came quick and shallow. Why here? Why this far from the fortress? Why a cave, of all places?

At length, she allowed him to take her from the saddle. The ground was very cold and difficult to walk on without staggering. Eskel swept her up without a word and carried her into the cave. She felt inept and exhausting. The last thing she recalled was some marine creature dragging her into her sodden grave, then pain, and then nothing at all. Eskel must have tracked her down and waited with her until the time came to change back. Yes, she was an exhausting person. That much was certain. From that to this: unable to walk on her own. Unable to remember, unable to do so much.

He had no issue navigating the darkness, and when she looked up, the shine of his golden eyes cast a faint glow across his cheeks. He was devastatingly handsome. Where was this man's lover? Or wife? Did he have children?

An old cot awaited them, several strange bronze apparatus', and a charred pit for a fire. Naturally, he placed her on the cot, ensuring her comfort first before anything else. He prepared the pit in the thickening shadows, snapped his fingers, and the fire coughed to life. Ingrid scooted closer as he went back outside to remove several bags from the saddle and lead his mare into the cave. He fanned out a blanket for her and in little time, she lowered herself and watched from afar. Ingrid let her eyes wander, grazing over the stone walls, the ground, to the chains lying limp along the cave floor. Her heart thundered.

"Eskel," she said softly, watching his every move, anxiety growing in the pit of her stomach. "What are you going to make me do?"

"I've prepared a tea for you," he said while unbuckling the scabbards and placing them aside. "There's a chance it'll make you sick, but try to keep it down."

Ingrid drew her legs up, keeping the blanket wrapped tightly around her shivering figure and placed her chin on her knees. She stared at the fire, wondering how far down the mountain she could get before the witcher caught up or the cold consumed her.

Eskel left and for how long was lost to her; she was too focused on distracting herself with the flames while trying to quell her nerves. When he returned, the tea arrived in a wineskin. He handed it to her and without a moment's delay, she pulled the cork and downed the contents. No sense in delaying the inevitable and if she thought about it too long, she'd make a run for it. The taste was horrible, acrid and bitter, threatening to crawl back up her throat if she allowed it. Clamping a hand over her mouth, she didn't. And the trial was over. Now it was time to wait.

Eskel joined her at staring into the fire, sitting across the pit from her. There was plenty of space along the cot. And after the series of kisses they shared in the river, Ingrid thought at her side was a place he'd want to be. Maybe she'd read him wrong. Or perhaps he pitied her?

Silence pressed in from all sides. The shadows felt heavier, the chains closer than before as if they crept like snakes when she wasn't looking.

"You're worried," she said, "You're worried about what will become of me."

He looked up from the fire but didn't say anything. Those lambent eyes and hideous scar no longer frightened her. What frightened her was how close she quickly felt towards him. What if this ruined that?

"Do you find me attractive?" she continued, shivering not from the cold but the fear of was to happen, and also afraid of his answer. What if he didn't? What if there was a wife or lover? A family and she'd read him wrong and forced herself upon him?

"Very much so," he said softly.

Ingrid exhaled the air locked in her chest slowly.

"And this... _tonic_  you had me drink, what if it shows you a beast? What if I'm an unsightly demon? What then?"

Again, he had no answer.

The witcher rose, sat next to her, and took her hand. Though, whatever ingredients were in the tea, she wasn't sure how that was supposed undo whatever was wrong with her. Something within her suggested it was far more complicated than that.

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eskel and Ingrid return to Kaer Morhen and spend some quality time together.

During the night, Ingrid accidentally fell asleep. Morning came and the witcher roused her awake with a gentle grasp of her shoulder.

"It's time to go," he whispered, brushing her hair from her face. He was close, so close she could feel his body heat.

 Dazed from sleep, she nodded and rose up, gathering the blanket tightly around her. As suspected, the hemlock medley sent a wave of nausea over her. She suppressed it with measured breaths, hoping that the sickness did not last long. If the effects were only temporary, she could assume such. Saddled and readied, they rode back, descending the mountain in the quiet, misty dawn. Ingrid slept most of the way, managing to stay upright and in the seat by leaning against Eskel's broad back and snaking her arms around his waist. He kept one hand over hers, the other guiding the reins until the sleepy fortress slid into view.

When they entered the drafty hall, they were expected. Despite the young hour, clashing steel alerted them before they beheld Ciri and Lambert sparring off near the cots. Triss perched atop a crate, picking at her fingernails with her shapely legs crossed, bored. Upon seeing their arrival, she hopped down and this summoned the practicing witchers to pause and glance over.

The sorceress meant to provide a greeting, but whatever words she summoned failed her at once. There was a shift in the room when all eyes settled on Ingrid. She hated this--being stared at. Perhaps it was something she’d never get used to. Was it so obvious something between Eskel and her had changed?

Lambert clapped a gloved hand over his eyes and spun on his heels. His shoulders bounced. _Laughter_. Something was funny.

 _I think I hate him…_ she glared at him as hard as she could, even though it was in vain.

Eskel took her hand and gave it a squeeze, leading her ahead. They left the great hall, heading for the spiraling stairs that would take them to the tower. She could still feel their eyes burning into her back, Lambert still laughing at some hidden joke.

A bath awaited her at the top, conjured by the sorceress more than likely. The surface churned gently, wisps of steam danced across the surface of the large vat invitingly. After so much time in the cold, she had half the mind to throw herself in.

Prepared to the slough her blanket and drab, she leaned over the edge and beheld her reflection. She jerked back with a sharp gasp, nearly slipping on the stone floor.   _The reflection!_

She wasn't sure what to expect, but it was not that.

 _A glimpse of horns_ was all she saw, but it was enough. _Gods, it was enough._

She stepped back, sensing more than hearing Eskel watching her.

"You knew this whole time," her hiss trembled. “You just let me walk right before all of them looking like…. _like this!”_

Eskel stepped closer to her back. His fingers found purchase of the wool, drawing it away from her shoulders. Her fist tightened, eventually dropping it onto the floor. He reached for something at the base of her spine, exactly where her coccyx resided. Lifting the hem of her blouse, his hand slipped under and grabbed her.   _A tail._ It swayed gently, autonomously, brushing the floor, the backs of her ankles, twitching like a cat's.

And, like a cat, Ingrid hissed, jerking out of his embrace and hurrying into the scalding pool to hide from his gilded eyes. Blouse and all, the hot water crashed around her, heating her skin and face or was that the burn of humility? She drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around her legs.

Thank the gods for the scalding water, least she shiver and tremble. Eskel’s foul tea worked and only temporarily, right? How long until it wore off? How long until she was normal again?

"What does this mean?" she spoke between her knees, staring straight ahead. Maybe if she was still, reality couldn’t sneak up on her.

The witcher set aside his swords, unbuckled his red doublet, and peeled it away. The leather and sharp studs rattled as they fell into a heavy heap.

"It means we are one step closer to freeing you."

From the corner of her eyes, she could see his muscular torso, written scars scribed from talons and teeth. Monsters that took pieces of him wherever it was they went when the blade fell. He kicked off his worn boots and trousers and followed her into the vat, which was large enough to comfortably accommodate them both.

"You're not frightened?" she asked incredulously, not by his words but by the fact that he'd just crawled into the tub with her. It seemed she feared herself more than he did.

The water settled around them as the morning sun shined through the tower windows, illuminating the steamy air, his tousled hair, and orange eyes.

He gave her a sly, crooked grin as he reached beneath the water to grasp her ankle. "I happen to have a thing for horns." He gave it a tug, bringing her closer to slide her legs over his thighs. An invitation to straddle him. "I found you beautiful before them, though."

There was no wife, lover, or family. Perhaps all the family was downstairs and none of them looked at Eskel the way he was looking at her now.

She hadn’t read him wrong. In truth, Ingrid wanted nothing more. Still, she wasn't sure what to make of this. In this mysterious life of hers, Eskel had shown her compassion and patience. With lantern eyes that rivaled the moonlight in both glow and beauty, they beheld her with only tenderness and affection, even with the horns. How could she say no?

She didn't, of course, gliding through the water like a nymph to nestle intimately in his lap. Their bodies were both responsive to the proximity, behaving naturally and eagerly. Another revelation came to pass. She might not recall her original name, provenance, and many other aspects of herself, but she simply _knew_  what was about to transpire between them.

Ingrid peeled away her wet blouse and slung it off to the side. The witcher dipped his arms beneath the surface, gripping her backside and lifting her while adjusting his hips. Ingrid rested her hands on his shoulders, working in conjunction to slide down onto him. The pressure, the penetration, the heat of it all and the thick sensation of Eskel _inside her_ wrought her senses like forging iron. Something of a moan slithered out of the witcher, low, guttural, almost a growl. She captured his mouth with her in raw, savage kiss and threw her wet arms around him. Magic swelled inside the deepest part of her, adding to the vim and vigor of their roust. Eskel explored her body with his hands. The curve of her rump, the mounds of her soft breasts, and a tapering waist. The water splashed and trickled, betraying their movements while Ingrid rocked her hips against his, slow and hot. With every rise and fall, Eskel tensed beneath her, steered her hips to sink down and fully sheath him. 

"You want to take this to the bed?" he asked before capturing a nipple gently between his lips.

She hissed and nodded. In a single motion, she was swept up and carried from the vat. A pattern of water droplets led a trail from the bathtub to the bed where Eskel lay her down gently. Her lower half hung over the edge, held up by his hands cupping the back of her knees. He parted them while he slowly drove himself into her. Whether it was the hideous scar, the hardness of his eyes, or layers of spikes and steel he usually wore, Ingrid never would have pictured Eskel as a generous lover. But then again, he was such a gentle soul, how could she not? He stroked her flame, caressed every inch of her body and left no plane of skin unkissed or neglected. He was doting, thorough and, _oh so patient,_  until her inner walls tightened and her breath came choppy and uneven until her poor body could not withstand the torment any longer and begged for release. She came undone around him, and even then, he maintained a slow, methodical tempo, taking her as deep as he could go, allowing her core to grip and milk his length. In a final thrust, his body flexed and shivered, filling her with that warm, familiar sensation of a man.  _Familiar?_  

A feminine pride swelled within her, and the tingle of magic warmed her from the deepest part of her core.

They climbed up the bed, pulling the blankets over their naked, sated bodies. Ingrid sought the comforting thrum resonating with him, hitching her leg over his waist and pressing herself against his side. He pulled her close, and while he wasn't tired, she surely was and eventually drifted to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Ingrid settles into a comfortable routine, her mysterious past cames creeping out of the shadows.

Several weeks drew by, and at last, a new normal presented itself. The lifting of the curse was stalled or perhaps Ingrid just wished to avoid the strange apparatus they referred to as the examination table. In truth, it was many things. Firstly, the hemlock tea had yet to wear off, still sending waves of nausea through her while keeping the strange illusion that hid her horns and tail at bay. Secondly, eating was still a problem. Bread and water were about the only things she could keep down and even then it was a chore. Unable to eat, sleeping often, and following Eskel like a shadow provided Ingrid's new life and for a brief time, things made a little sense and she was happy. At least, it felt like happiness, but without much to go off of or compare too, content worked as well.   
  
All the while Eskel stayed by her side, teaching her how to play cards, how to shoot an arrow, and making love to her on a blanket of moss, against a large and old oak tree, or on the banks of the lake just below Kaer Morhen. And every time, she slept afterward, waking to feel the hemlock still tying her insides to knots.   
  


* * *

 

In rapt silence, Ingrid watched Eskel draw the bowstring back taut as he aimed. On cat eye closed, the sunlight filtered through the canopy caught his lengthy scar and his dominant eye, brightening it like molten iron. Ingrid bit her lip to keep from smiling. A witcher hunting was incredibly―what's the word― _ arousing. _   
  
He released his hold and the arrow whistled through the air, slamming into its intended target with a thud. Ingrid peered around a tree just as the pheasant fell onto its side, an arrow protruding from its breast. A swift, merciful kill. He looked over at her with a proud smile that dizzied her heart. She would take him after this. Once they reached Kaer Morhen, he was hers.   
  
On the ride back, she teased him. Pinching his sides to watch him jerk and hear his deep laugh, running her hands up and down his thigh with the occasional squeeze dangerously close to his groin.  What a sight they must have been. A witcher and a horned she-beast atop of black stallion named Scorpion. Ingrid couldn't remember the last time anxiety didn't slither up and down her spine.   
  
"Keep it up," he warned darkly. "Once we come through the doors, you better move quick."

When they reached the innermost courtyard, they found three extra horses in the stables. A black stallion―much like Ciri's―an aloof mule, and an agitated buckskin that looked to be a biter.   
  
They dismounted, steering clear of the buckskin and as they crossed towards the stairs, Eskel kept glancing back at the stables. When they entered the keep, they were greeted with boisterous laughter and loud, excited prattle that saturated the air like magic. Ingrid took a deep breath, inhaling it like a fragrance. Eskel sat the bird down on a nearby table and glanced at her wryly.   
  
A grin spread over her features; he hadn't forgotten. The chase was on. He reached for her with the speed and agility known for witchers, but Ingrid was expecting such and shrieked like a banshee, barely evading his hands. She sprang to the right, careened around the table, and sprinted madly for the rear of the keep. The witcher was hot on her heels. Quick and light on her feet, she flew past the bookshelves, hurdled over one of the many bronze contraptions presented in the keep and entered the bottom portion of the tower. Already racing up the stairs, she only heard one step of footfalls; her own. She paused, stopped shorted, and glanced back.   
  
The chase was finished. Eskel hadn't even reached the bottom of the stairs, much less breached the tower walls, but he was smiling, looking off towards the company lingering in the kitchen.   
  
He glanced back, beaming up at her. "I'll be right there."   
  
Thinking nothing of this, she raced up the remaining stairs giddy with anticipation. Now in the bedroom, she moved across towards the vanity dresser. A time before seeing horns and the matching eyes, she found her reflection repulsive. Now, not so much. Vain, certainly not, but what the looking glass revealed no longer surprised her or caused her stomach to churn.   
  
Pulling her tumbling white hair atop her head, she fashioned it into a loose bun, using her horns as a sort of mooring method. Eskel had a thing for her neck and shoulders, and though by the end of their risqué roust, her bun would be undone and tangled.

  
A few minutes turned into several. And the once excited Ingrid now felt rather anxious. What of the extra horses in the stables? In retrospect, she should have asked what that meant. Kaer Morhen rarely received visitors, but Triss, Lambert, and Ciri would have been on guard if something was awry. She trusted them to fortify the keep. Aside from that, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.   
  
Ingrid fingered a pale curl that tickled her shoulder absently, bouncing her leg as she waited. Then stiffened.    
  
She didn't hear the figure enter the room but rather  _ smelled  _ them.  Twisting around in her seat, she stared across the room as her heart crawled violently from her chest to her throat. Blood whooshed in her ears, roaring with life, driven to a wild frenzy. She felt like she was about to pass out.  Dressed in all black, a man stood in the doorway. Gaunt, pale, and sinewy, he was not a witcher, his agate-black eyes bore into her from there indicated otherwise.  Sage, mint, even coriander assaulted her senses as if before she stood an apothecary. His pale hands tipped in claws held onto the strap of his satchel as he stepped further into the chamber. Darkly dressed, eerily silent.   
  
Ingrid shot to her feet, knocking the stool back with a clatter. She took a deep breath and steeled her nerves. A change now might place her in a very compromised position.   
  
He halted and held up his hands in surrender or mercy.   
  
"I mean no harm... Ingrid, is it?" he said in a deep voice so smooth and lyrical, it stung her eyes. "My name is Emiel Regis.”   
  
He took another step forward, Ingrid met it with retreat. The room was stifling. With every step he made, she met with her own, keeping an equal distance away. Couldn't he see she was not normal? It wasn't safe to be in here, with her.   
  
"The witchers downstairs claims you've lost a great deal of memory," he went on. "Is that true?"   
  
A table and several meters of space separated them. He stopped advancing, but by now Ingrid had placed herself by an opened window. She'd scale down the tower if she had to.   
  
"What are you doing up here?" she hissed. "Where is Eskel?"   
  
“I assure you, he is downstairs with Geralt," Regis spoke calmly, too calmly. Was he not disturbed by her horns and tail? Here at the witcher's keep, so far from any locals, hiding wasn't a consideration. This man─no, how he moved without making a sound suggest he was something else─looked at her as horns were some sort of common occurrence wherever he hailed from.   
  
"Why are you here? What do you want from me?" she spat.   
  
"I want to talk, to  _ help _ you."   
  
"You're  _ not  _ helping me," her voice trembled, "You're frightening me." She was at the window now, the cool valley breeze kissing her bare shoulders. Eskel had found a sleeveless sundress in pewter on one of his outings. It was a tantalizing sheer, breathable, and made her white hair vivid in contrast. Now she felt utterly exposed. Naked. Immodest.   
  
She backed up until her heel hit the stone wall. Palming the ledge of the window, she risked a glance, just to gauge her position. How far was it down? When she looked back, Regis was standing directly in front of her.   
  
Ingrid yelp, scrambling away for the window to her escape but nearly collided into the panel. The window was now shut. But how? It was just opened moments before. She leaped over the table, barreling past him and clambering across the bedding. At the edge, her legs tangled in the sheets, pitching her forward onto floor face first. Upside down, head craned uncomfortably due to the horns pressed to the floor, she worked her legs, unraveling herself and fell into a graceless heap. She watched his legs walk a path around the bed until he came into full view.   
  
Like a frantic cat, she thrashed until she shot back to her feet and raced for the door. He intercepted her─impossible. She collided into him, bouncing off comically, and sprawled back onto the floor. The man worked faster and soundlessly than either witchers.   
  
He stared down at her with pity, drawing anger from the fear building inside her.   
  
"You truly don't remember, do you?" he said despondently, which confused her. Her roiling emotions were thrown. The rising ire sputtered and stopped. It was useless escaping him and this was frustrating, yes. The fact that Eskel was not up here, handling the situation was also an issue.  But for reasons beyond her, his dark eyes were warm. His expression soft and wounded.   
  
"Just a moment of your time," Regis whispered.   
  
"Promise me Eskel is safe," she breathed, blowing a strand of hair from her face.   
  
By his reaction, she might have slapped him. He looked away trying to hide his pained expression. The foundations of her anger crumbled until all that remained was disarmed confusion. A muscle worked in his jaw before he finally nodded, settling his dark eyes on her once more.   
  
"As I stated before, he is amongst friends. His colleague and I have known each other for some time."   
  
Adhering to this, Ingrid took a spot along her bed while Regis approached the table, producing a bottle of red wine from his satchel. There was a decanter in the room. A wet bar even, that he avoided or perhaps hadn't noticed.  As he poured two glasses of a deep crimson liquid, he respired deeply as though he were about to deliver terrible news or address something dire and troubling.    
  
Several agonizing minutes of silence swelled the chamber, filling the space like pressure or smoke Ingrid inhaled with every breath. It pounded her heart and burned her eyes. With every inhale, she tasted him; mint, basil, and sage. He stared down at the dark surface on his drink, lost in thought before returning to the bedside. She took the glass carefully.   
  
"Why have you come here?" she spoke first, ending the unbearable silence. "Why are you in the tower with me? Are you not frightened?"   
  
"It’s nothing I haven’t seen before," he said with a faint smile. He stared at the depths of his drink again, respiring. "I once courted a succubus. Such an insatiable creature. I wish things had worked out, but alas, life always has other plans.”   
  
Ingrid gave him a quizzical look. "I'm sorry to hear that." What else was she supposed to say? Did she know this man? Nothing indicated she did, but simply by the casual approach and address, she began to wonder. Now it was her turn to stare into her cup. The dark surface captured the sunlight, tracing her black horns within the reflection. "Do I know you?"   
  
She looked up to see that wounded expression return. Ingrid began to wonder if he was actually hurt. Aside from his paleness and gaunt features, he appeared right as rain.

"You used to.” His words plucked a painful chord in her heart. There was a chance she was speaking to someone she couldn't remember, or he was lying... No, he wasn't lying.   
  
"I have no recollection of you," she admitted with little conviction, hating how her words impacted him in such a way. “I’m sorry.”   
  
"Finish your glass and I'll begin," he said. "It's a rather long story."   
  
Sighing contemptuously, she snatched up her glass and drained it, slamming it down onto the nightstand with punctuation. She paused, blinking as the rich coppery taste coated her tongue and warmed her throat.  _ Blood _ . She'd just drank straight blood. Her pulse pounded in her head as she reached up and dabbed her lips. 

  
“What have you done?” she stared at the red stains on her fingertips. Something was happening, she didn’t feel right. She felt...gods...she felt… He was already at her side, brushing her hair from her shoulders, baring the skin for a place to rest his hand. And when he cupped her neck, forcing her to look at him, her blood roared with a thunderous battle cry.   
  
And reality shattered like glass.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaer Morhen's company and campaign comes to an impasse when Triss attempts to sending their guest back to her respective plane.

_Belching flames and a chorus of tortured screams lashed through her mind like whip's cracking kiss. Howls and barreling storms; a world that was thrown upside down and torn asunder. A black, charred hatred consumed her, then vanished like a snuffed flame. Power unfathomably deep and endless sucked her down into a black void where beast of every tooth, beak, and claw awaited her._

Ingrid's head was thrown back from the invisible force seizing her, blood trickling, eyes locked open but unseeing. Keeling over, she began to convulse against the bed.

Stepping in, Regis did his best to keep her still as her memories broke beyond the mental dam. He prayed-if such gods existed-this worked. Through blood, she'd seen into the future. And through blood, he hoped her past would return.

 _The island of her nightmare loomed up. The storm overhead churned and keened a mourning song, splintering the sky with lightning and rumbling the earth with its thunder. She was moving, clambering out of the shore as fast as she could. But she was too late. She was always too late_.

She began to scream in agony. The memories coming to life like wriggling worms forcing their way through, scouring her mind raw and bloody. They broke her apart, hulled her, then stuffed themselves inside.

_She saw Regis naked beneath her, then Dettlaff's dark hair with his sharp claws parting her thighs. Ygritte watching from afar as her best friend shed her human form to stalk on four legs. Syanna, Beauclair burning. The screams; the fire; the dying. And then she was a djinn. An infinite, boundless, omnipotent being full of rage and hysteria. She couldn't not be contained or controlled;_

Regis. His fangs. Buried. Her neck. Blood. Life. Death.

Black stars blotted her eyes and the world grew quiet and peaceful.

Then it all went black until she knew nothing.

* * *

Eskel broke through the door with his sword drawn, prepared to hack and rend the higher vampire apart but Geralt and Lambert were at his heels as he cleared the doorway and one of them grabbed a fistful of his sleeve and reigned him back.

Along the bed, Regis had Ingrid pinned. No, not pinned; _contained_. She was thrashing, screaming, slinging blood everywhere like a madwoman.

"Don't get involved," the witcher Geralt growled. "This isn't your fight." He had said those very words once before, just before they heard her blood curdling scream.

_It's not your fight. She's not who you think she is. Ingrid is not her name._

Eskel rooted to the floor, lowering his sword until it hung from his hand like dead weight. It wasn't his fight, but it was _his_ girl. And right now she was coming undone. Words from the previous conversation plagued him: He had her all wrong; they all did.

But she was still his girl.

* * *

Catatonia was not what Geralt and the two vampires had in mind but it was what they achieved. Eskel watched in dismay as they carried Ingrid's unconscious figure down the tower stairs and strapped her to the gurney. He'd never felt so powerless, so lost. So besides himself.

Trickles of blood had escaped her nose, mouth, and ears. Only by the slow rise and fall of her chest indicated she was still alive. Awaiting them with every tool they might need were Ciri and Triss. The sorceress read and re-read what she could. The witcheress, once under the tutelage and instruction of Yennefer, stood by her side and together they worked the incantation mutely, succinctly. It would take a lot of power to unbind whatever curse held her. A notable sorceress like Triss and Ciri's powerful Elder blood should do it.

Geralt tightened the leather straps along Laz's wrists and ankles, then began cinching the belt that held her waist to the apparatus. She wore the pewter dress Eskel purchased for her, trading a rare Elven sword for it. She loved it and it quickly became her favorite. Now it was stained and torn from her thrashing. She looked like a wild animal caught in a snare.

The image of the vampire looming over Laz stained his mind, inspiring strange and unwelcomed afflictions within him. He pushed it down, down, and further down. At his sides, his hands flexed tightly until the leather gloves groaned. The swords felt heavy on his back. Legs numb, heart pounding. He couldn't find the calm within the chaos no matter how hard he tried.

They had to work fast before she came out of her trance. Once the memories worked their course, she'd wake up. What awaited them when she opened her eyes was too much of a risk.

Triss held a dainty hand over Laz's forehead, brought it over her mouth, neck, and chest. The faint light emanating from her palm glowed over her navel, her hips. There, the redhead paused. Ciri stood by her side, watching carefully.

Triss' brow furrowed, eyes opening. She stepped back, shaking her head.

"What is it?" Ciri queried. "Still too weak to survive?"

"We can't do it." Triss said flatly. " _I_ can't do it."

The bustling room went still.

Geralt crossed his arms with a crunch, scowling. "Explain."

Lambert growl, "You said you would help us lift the curse and send it back. What's the issue now, _Merigold?"_

 _It_. The cold address sent Eskel's stomach to his feet.

"I can't do it," Triss looked at Geralt despondently, pleading with her soft eyes. "I just can't."

* * *

Lazarus snapped awake with a jolt and attempted to sit up. She didn't make it far; leather straps bit into her wrist and ankles as she moved, cold metal pressed into her back and she was left staring at the arched ceilings of Kaer Morhen, where the flickering lights of an iron chandelier cast shadow play across the old stones.

Cobwebs quivered. Dry leaves scratched the floor. It was as quiet as the grave in the keep's main hall. Her throat was scoured, coughing as she came to. She licked her lips, swallowed thickly and began to panic as the realization hit.

_Kaer Morhen._

She made it but not without a price. She'd lost a great deal of memory; an expected hindrance when she was a wolf for far too long. Not only that, but the horrible thing she'd awoken during her trance was not a manifestation of the curse. _It was her_ ; her true, unfiltered, unrestrained form. Capable of shifting forms within a blink of an eye and unparalleled strength, no wonder Geralt was wary of her. The amount of malice and discontent that swelled within. A lifetime of latent power, suddenly unleashed, nearly eradicated her humanity. she had become an insatiable monster and in waves she battled that anger. But the emotions were too raw and wild, fleeting. Coming and going, unable to settle like a thrashing sea. She wailed madly, roared like a beast, and cried like a lunatic.

Laz closed her eyes as hot tears threatened her vision. What a mess she made of herself. Who was she now but a horrible thing hellbent on destruction? This was not what she wanted. From the earliest days of her memory, she'd been nothing but trouble. From her employment with Hawkes, to Ygritte constantly excusing her behavior and covering the workload when Laz was too tired to stand. What kind of madness did she force Keira to endure? Then Regis, where she'd attempted to turn him against Geralt in her favor. In the end, she was the greatest threat of all. If she'd known what the blood truly did, if she had only understood what lie beneath the magical veil set in place by Keira, she would have never looked. She would have never questioned it.

Taking a deep breath, she cleared her troubled mind and double checked the straps on her wrist and ankles. The leather groaned and the buckles rattled softy. She tried again, pulling on the restraints until it hurt. To no avail. She would remain here until the others returned for her. _Regis was here._ The recollection squeezed her heart painfully. He'd come. He'd finally come and he knew how to free her mind but it was too late. Mistakes had been made; a new lover born. Laz had shared a bed with another, not once, or twice, but many, many times.

 _With a witcher, no less._ At time before this notion would have made her skin crawl. She detested witchers, then came Geralt, who showed her this judgement was unfounded. _Then Eskel…_ Despair clutched her stomach and tightened her chest. She cried quietly and regretfully. She _was_ Keira's daughter; a lecherous creature. A whore. A harlot. Bending men to her will just like the sorceress.

_Just like a witcher..._

The others, did they know? Could they look upon her and see the marks of multiple lovers? Could they see how she fed and fed from a vampire? Could they hear Eskel's magic purr through her veins? It was unknown. If not, they soon would _._

And until then, she needed to reckon with herself.

* * *

Triss was the first to arrive. Her pretty eyes were saddened as she came to the side of the gurney, placing a gentle hand on Laz's forearm. "How are you doing?"

_Not well, actually._

"I'm...," Laz struggled to muster enough strength in her words, but the knot tightening her throat made her far too transparent. She pressed her lips, squeezing her eyes shut as the tears spilled from their corners. "I've been better..."

"Nonsense," the sorceress cooed, running a thumb across Laz's skin, seeming pleased with her response. "Geralt told us what happened in Toussaint. Quite an adventure, I must say. I wish I could have been there." The small ministrations elicited by her stroking fingers were comforting. Like the witchers, Triss also had energy humming through her, but this sensation was far stronger. And if Laz wasn't careful, she'd fall back to sleep. If the pressing anxiety and looming unknown allowed her a moment of reprieve.

"What's going to happen to me?" she croaked, opening her eyes to stare a hole into the sorceress.

"Nothing," Triss clipped. "I'll make sure of it."

Laz gave her a strange look. "Nothing at all?" Surely she'd made a mistake by saying that.

Triss began unbuckling the belts around her wrists and ankles, then helped her sit up. "I can't perform the spell. Appears we've come to an impasse."

"I don't understand."

"Your sickness was not as complicated as we thought. I feared your body was too weak to survive the ordeal, but its not _you_ that I'm worried about," Triss cleared her throat, lifting her eyebrows and tilting her head with a gesture. Laz stared, blinking. The rhetoric lost to her.

Triss took both of Laz's hands into hers. The magic hummed and warmed her skin. The sorceress smiled, that same sad smile that perpetuated her pretty features, and whispered, "I'm worried about your child..."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laz goes before Eskel and then Regis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, darlings. this chapter is roughly 4k. I typically keep my word count between 1500 to 2k because that's about as long as I can endure when I'm reading myself. Anywho, I could not chop this up in an attempt to lessen the count without unnecessarily separating the chapter. For that, I apologize! At any rate, I hope you enjoy the angst and makeup sex! Halloween is almost here!!

The fortress moaned whisperings of a past life. Stiffened with disbelief, Laz stared at the sorceress and waited for the punchline or signal that she was merely jesting. Triss walked over to a basin, dipped a washcloth in and returned to clean the blood from Laz's flummoxed expression.

There was no punchline. It was anything but a friendly quip.

"The issues are," Triss continued, wiping Laz's cheeks. "To undo the curse would cost a great deal of magic and physical exertion on both our behalf. You've barely eaten. You're exhausted all hours of the day. I can't comfortably determine your chance for surviving if we were to try." Triss stopped her cleaning to look down bloody rag.

_The issues… There must be more._

"What else?" Laz said beneath her breath.

The sorceress looked up, reflecting.

Now it was time for the worst part of the news. Laz swallowed unable to tear her gaze away from the pale blue eyes and freckled nose, afraid she might miss something. The sickness; the fatigue; her strange, fickle appetite. They had all been warning signs she missed. Now she knew though, she was not barren like Keira. The agony of her curse had not compromised her ability to bear children. But  _what else?_

"In some instances," Triss spoke carefully, "The curse can even be inherited, depending upon its complexity." The pretty redhead with her sad eyes paused, her words gained weight and clarity before saying, "We are at a crossroad. We can attempt to remove the spell that binds you and risk the death of your baby. Or wait until birth and pray to whatever god will listen that the curse does not imprint on the child."

Triss placed the washcloth aside, adding "Please, think carefully about this," she added, "I can offer you suggestions but, ultimately, the decision must be yours."

* * *

_This was Keira's fault._ From the beginning, the moment she took Laz from wherever it was she hailed from, misfortunate struck time and time again.

As fate would have it, Laz could not hold onto a thread of hope or optimism. Fate dealt these cards and with these cards, Laz could fold or push forward. What could cause the heart to soar one moment and plummet the next? Only this.

Laz swung her legs over and stood. Those options were horrendous. Which were the lesser evil?  _Was_  there a lesser evil or was she a fool to believe otherwise? Living on a spectrum of death between one and many, laced in agony and confusion, how was she decide which was favorable? Ending the child's life before it even began seemed horrid and unfair, but allowing the curse to pass through her and into her offspring was something she simply couldn't imagine. Inwardly, she cursed Keira and strode away from the table, the hall, and the sorceress.

Next thing she knew she was walking out of Kaer Morhen. The winter chill, not much colder than the drafty keep, greeted her. The dress given to her by Eskel was tattered and stained, making her appear worse for wear. Which was certainly true. From her earliest memory, trouble had done nothing but follow her. No matter her location, incentive or campaign, something awry would transpire; it always did. She attracted it, allowing it to breed and convolute. Starting with Keira, even attempting to turn Regis against Geralt. She exploited the vampire's weakness, despite the warnings and the witcher's bargaining. What did she care? She came and went, doing as she pleased no matter who or what it affected. Most of all, she'd betrayed Regis and Eskel. If that wasn't enough guilt to burden already...

At length, she found the witcher along the river bank doing nothing in particular. Merely standing there in the gloom as dusk descend the country of Kaedwen.

Laz hugged herself from the cold. This ruined dress, these circumstances, the stiffness held in Eskel's shoulders, they were all unwelcoming. Then she realized, this was the site she woke from one of her changes to find him waiting for her.

"Can we talk?" the hum of the river carried her voice in flat notes.

Eskel didn't respond right away, offering not much more than a sidelong glance before muttering. "Sure," as he turned away from the river, kicking rocks with his scuffed boots until they were face to face. His arms hung down at his sides, all but relaxed though he tried to hold up the idea.

Watching him was like watching a stranger. She knew him intimately, but even then, she didn't really know him. Simply speaking he didn't know  _her_ , at all. There was that divide. Who he held in his arms, kissed tenderly, and savored with all his passion was not the woman who stood before him now. As it was, they had done things and now their repercussions were upon them. Ingrid; a name that reminded her of Ygritte and Imogen, was not a real person. That woman was gone. Only Lazarus remained.

Even still, she could see the charm that captured her eye when whilst her memories slept. Eskel was still handsome, would always be. His prowess and caliber were of a fine, though rugged, pedigree. It was unfortunate that he deserved better. Much better. Perhaps in some primordial way, she did it to survive. When it came to survival, there was no room or use for shame.

"I'm pregnant," she said bluntly, heat rushing up to her neck and cheeks.

A moment past. The endless drone of the river kept the strained silence at bay but not the discomfiture passing between them.

"I know," Eskel murmured, watching her.

Laz blinked, taken aback by the hard look behind his eyes, suddenly aware of the disconnect stretching between them. "That's it?" she hissed over a thundering heart. Did she have to spell it out for him?

"Ing-," he caught himself, clearing his throat as though her true name tasted foul. " _Lazarus_ , what do you expect me to do with that information?"

"Perhaps take responsibility!" she balked.

" _Responsibility?_ " he scoffed. "For another man's child?"

Now the heat flared to her ears and chest, feeding into her anger.

"Another man's?" her voice came out strained and incredulous. Had she missed something? Had their hours of lovemaking beneath the shadowy grove, atop gravestones, and against ancient oaks happened between her and someone else? Certainly not. She'd committed those eyes and that scar to memory. She'd committed every detail, every marking, every guttural moan and intimate whisper of Eskel to memory. Because before, he was everything.

The witcher took a deep breath, battling within himself. Yes, she had betrayed him. The moment that Regis arrived at Kaer Morhen, she'd betrayed both of them. It was staring back at her now. The gold of his eyes was no longer warm but hardened as tree sap wintered over.

"I'm a witcher," his eyes softened, driving home the terrible revelation. "I cannot sire children."

Laz blinked again, staggering as if the news knocked her back.  _It wasn't Eskel's child,_  she realized. The rearing anger swept out from beneath her, replacing it was a pit of cold, disarming humility where she now plummeted.

 _You stupid dolt,_ her thoughts jeered.  _While your cracked mind couldn't recall even your own name, you were already sick… You were sick before Eskel, long before._

She'd been sleeping with a man whilst carrying another's baby. Keira would be so proud, she admonished bitterly. Perhaps she could blame it on the curse or the memory loss. Maybe, maybe not. Either way, there was no excuse for her behavior.

Laz's features twisted into a frown. Whether or not Eskel saw it, she was at another crossroad. Albeit, this was one slightly less monumental than the previous one, it still left a bitterness at the back of her throat. She wanted to be angry at him, but there was nothing about Eskel she could pick apart. Handsome, tender, endearing; without being told to, he was there when she came out of a change, blinded by confusion and helpless. Not even Keira had done that for her. It  _was_  pivotal, meant more to her than a vast number of things. How could she let a man like that go?

Very simply, she couldn't and certainly wouldn't be easy either. But even Laz knew she couldn't have her cake and eat it, too.

"Well then," she managed with a voice as hard as flint. The river beyond them did its best to swallow it, but as Eskel clearly stated, he was a witcher and that included many things: a methodical killer, keen-eared, and sharp-eyed….

But not a father.

Not naturally, at least.

Speaking of things unnatural….

* * *

It was hardly any effort on her part to find the higher vampire. It almost seemed second nature, requiring little thought and execution. As soon as she crossed the threshold of Kaer Morhen, she headed straight for the tower stairs where at the top, without a doubt, he awaited her.

Easing the door open, she slipped inside, closing and locking the door. Before turning around, she pressed her forehead to the surface, took a deep clearing breath, and faced the room.

Perched on his seat before a table across the room, Regis looked out into the gloom with his arms draped over the armrests. At the sight, Laz's heart climbed and fell, tumbling against her insides like a cog broken loose and fit to compromise the entire machinery. In her veins, her blood sang. Yes, he was still very much a part of her; his blood coursed her veins. Emotionally, mentally. Seeing him excited her beyond comprehension but it was pride versus humility now.

Having already mortified herself by going before a man not physically capable of siring children, Laz wasn't sure how to begin this discussion. Not while her body battled her to rush across the room and throw herself against him; a war between the head and the heart, she was at.

Months of confusion and question had passed. If she had paid attention, she would have seen her belly swelling. In truth, she assumed it was her body recovering from the time spent as an animal. Lean, sinewy, underfed, the growth was slow and unassuming. Months had gone by.  _Months!_  Where had he been this entire time? Before she ran herself out of Toussaint, they had all agreed to send her to the witcher's keep so it was no mystery. It wasn't a shock and awe that even the animal inside her managed to know that. She'd come. And here, she'd waited. While they...what? Restored Beauclair, rejoiced? Imbibed and reveled?

Laz cleared her throat, tilted her chin up proudly and said, "I suppose you've already heard the news."

She was met with silence.

Regis maintained his quiet brooding, not once looking from the window she'd earlier attempted escaping through. Every passing breath, his scent seeped into her pores, reminding and recalling another time. Her heart wedged itself. Kinking, disrupting, crashing the internal machine working inside her. Whatever haughty pride she thought she could muster before the vampire, it was destined to falter at his feet. Of course. Laz considered dropping down to her knees right then and there and begging for forgiveness, but it didn't seem like something she'd do: Beg. Even imagining it all stirred anger and resentment. In short, she couldn't win for losing.

Instead, she turned away and meandered towards the bed. Space. She needed space. Sage, mint, thyme. It permeated the air, inescapable. It caressed her senses and reignited memories of a time she actually hunted down that very fragrance. Those days were far simpler than now, even if that might have been a stretch. Being caught up in Regis and Eskel. Cursed and pregnant. One death versus an infinite. Risk and inheritance. Hogwash. All hogwash, but it frightened her all the same.

She plopped down onto the bed, then fell back to stare at the ceiling. Silence.  _Utter fucking silence._  And after a series of moments, minutes ticking by, it infuriated her to no end. Deep down, deep, deep down, she wanted a reaction. She wanted to rile him in the same way his silence riled her. If being mute was how he wanted to inflict pain, then through noise and disruption, she would counterattack.

"Triss has made it known that should she unbind the spell, it places our⎯ _my_ child at risk," she said spitefully. "However, there's a caveat. Should I carry the baby full term while cursed, there's a chance it will move hosts or even imprint."

He said nothing.

Something shifted in her, perhaps her heart had finally lodged itself between several hard forces still trying to churn and function despite the blockage. Under building pressure, her heart cracked, splintered, then broke. From its weakened integrity, anger flowed anew. She felt so helpless. She hated this feeling. It sat on her shoulders and snickered when she found Keira. Now it sat on her shoulders while she tried avoiding her shame.

She sat up, chest rising and falling with flaring ire.

"Will you fucking say something?" she snarled. Only silence. Solace was often found in silence. As it was, in large quantities, it smothered, subdued, poisoned the mind. She wanted to lash out immediately, strike something, scream until her throat tore.

Leaning over, she grabbed a candelabra from the nightstand and hurled it towards the accursed window. There wasn't enough strength behind it to shatter it fully, but it did leave a spider web crack upon impact.

Regis offered nothing. Not even a flinch, much less an offhanded side glance. The silence was mocking her now. So be it.

Laz got to her feet and moved towards the bookcases lining the walls. One by one she yanked the tomes, chronicles, and illustrations from their assigned places and slung them to the floor. When that was done, she cleared the top of a nearby table clean scattering papers, more books, empty tankards, and pens. An empty wine glass from a time long before Laz's arrival wobbled on the edge then shattered onto the floor.

From one side to the other, Laz tore the room apart, keeping a clear distance from the vampire until the tower chamber was in shambles. Flushed and panting with the anger far from spent, she gripped her hair tightly until her scalp stung and her eyes blurred. She hated this feeling. Ineptitude, impotence, disregard. Surveying the room, she beheld her mess while the father of her child continued to ignore her. This was beyond him; a woman throwing a tantrum, for that's exactly what she was doing. Her eyes leveled on the broken wine glass. A new method was on the approach. An irrational one, of course.

Swiping up a sizeable shard, she turned the piece over her fingers until she found a biting edge, aimed at her flesh and pressed firmly. Dark blood welled to the surface like oil. Before it could spill over her arm, the shard was snatched from her hand and cast aside.

"Enough!" Regis snarled in her face. He had her injured wrist held above, applying pressure to the wound.  _At last, a catalyst!_ The squeeze along her small wrist, held by his claws; the proximity of him, even his dark eyes and how they glared into her, it was every reaction she wanted but she was far from done. What followed was a thoughtless as it was unwarranted.

Laz slapped him across the face.

"You do not get to tell me what to do!" her voice ripped through her throat in feral anger, freehand stinging. "You who abandoned me! You who left me to die in the wilderness! Despite my ignorance, we came here! Waiting! In constant hunger and confusion while you⎯" her face twisted into a rictus of hot fury. "While you…!"

_Spared your friend, fled the country, and all but left me to my own devise._

Regis jerked her forward, running his nicked thumb across her wounds.

"You will not!" she snarled, attempting to yank herself free. Regis maintained his hold and in seconds the wound closed, leaving a red smudge across her flesh.

Laz managed to free herself only because Regis allowed it. As he released his hold, she staggered away wrought with despair and her unnecessary need to galvanize him. Ah, but her plan had worked. Before she stood the pinnacle of it all. Her entire existence it seemed narrowed down to one being; Regis. Her first lover, her harbinger. He'd taken residence in the hole left from Keira's death. A mercurial passion as bright as the sun and as abysmal as the night sky consumed her; it filled her with love, hatred, wrath, and worship.

Blood had brought them together and if this continued any longer, it would also separate them.  _Gods be damned. All of them be damned._

The three red marks across his cheek sealed shut but the emotional damage lingered. Regis smoothed a claw through his gray hair and reigned himself in.

"Let me be clear," his words careful and steady, but behind the deep tenor was a break in his resolve. "I did everything I could to help you. I fed you; I mated with you so that your broke body could repair itself. I went against everything our Codex demands while I defended your crass misconduct before the witcher. If not for me, he would have cut you down long ago!"

"You should have let him," she seethed, clutching her uninjured arm. The bite of glass still fresh in her mind fed into her anger. "I didn't need your blood to heal, Regis. I needed to shift."

"You wanted this!" he hissed. " _You came to me_ , must I remind you!"

"Thank the gods for that!" she laughed dryly, "If you were here to  _remind_ me, then I never would have suffered from memory loss!"

Regis curled his claws into fists but remained in good control of his faculties.

With a steady voice, he said. "I came as soon as I could. I gathered the witcher and Dettlaff and together, we made haste for here," he pointed a sharp claw towards the floor. "To find you in the arms of another⎯," His words cut short, lips pursed. He inhaled deeply.

"Spare me," she snarled like a cat, hate rushing her words. "Tell it to your eternal brother, Dettlaff! Tell it to Geralt.! Write a song or scratch out a poem, I don't care! Just this morning I hadn't a fucking clue what my name was! I have lost everything! My mother! My memory! My home!  _Myself!_  Had I known what I knew now⎯look at me!⎯I would have never touched that witcher. I was lost, Regis! There is only one being in this world who has cared the most and stayed by my side from the beginning, and it's this fucking wolf!" She swayed on her feet, anger working her lungs. She whirled away, intending to march from the chamber and cool her heels somewhere in the forest, despite the faint rumbles of thunder drifting over the valleys. But Regis with his ethereal ways prevented that. He blocked her path as an undulating shadow.

"Why did you come here?" he asked, dark smoke still drifting about his feet. "Was it fight? Was it even to discuss the risks bestowed upon our child? Stay here, Lazarus. Do not go. Do not leave me here in this tower alone."

She stopped short, blinked and scowled. "It's too late for that, Regis." He sidestepped her when she made another move past him, once again intercepting her.

"You desire to fight, is that it?" he touched her bare arms and her roiling blood quieted, despite herself. "Take it out on me, if you must. I will bear it."

"It's  _too late for that_ , Regis." she hissed.

His dark eyes softened, pulled her into their expressive depths whilst his shoulders sagged, "I must...Please forgive me, Laz. From the moment you left me, I've been... grief-stricken, bereft. I needed a moment to collect my thoughts and find my words. It upset you, I see that now. Allow me to explain myself."

Laz shrugged off the hands resting on her shoulders and crossed her arms.

The longer he touched her, the more the tension bled away from her neck and shoulders, cooling her anger. Even still, his touch lingered pleasantly, tracing down her back and settling deep in her belly. In truth, she did want to fight, to thrash

and scream. To throw things and shout. Which all had been done but the anger remained. She wasn't ready to let anything go. Not Eskel, not Regis, not this baby. So much had already been ripped from her grasp. Had she not suffered enough loss already? First Keira, then her home. She had no idea where her horse was. Ygritte and Imogen; had they even survived the Beauclair fire?

"Please. Stay." He steered her from the chamber door to the bedside. "A moment is all I need. I will tell you everything."

And he did. From the shocking death that claimed Syanna to the indirect punishment that landed Geralt in the clink, he explained why he did not

come. For one, the witcher never told him where she left off to, for he was so quickly thrown behind bars, he hadn't the chance. Unable to question her whereabouts, Regis and Dettlaff returned home until the witcher served his sentence; a sentence cut short because of a favored viscount and his association with the infamous Geralt of Rivia.

"I was utterly inebriated. I took everything from you, drained you to the last drop," Regis muttered shamefully as they sat down. "Your behavior was...erratic, rushing through one emotion to the next, driven into madness. Feral, I would even say. I was at a loss... I feared⎯"

"I was going to turn the entire city inside out," she finished for him, simply because that's precisely what she wanted to do. That darkness still lurked inside her. A power so commanding, she'd lost control of herself, driven entirely on animalistic rage. She had yet to come to terms with the being that dwelled inside, begging for release. But to turn inward, and face her true self, was a daunting task. What if she fell into a trance again? Or lost control? For so as long as she gazed into the abyss, eventually,  _it would gaze back._

Regis nodded, meeting her eyes which sent her heart fluttering. She watched him, saw him for what felt like the first time all over again.  _Why am I like this?_ she wondered.  _What if I'm the problem?_ All these people have done nothing but extend their compassion; their resources; their talents and trades.  _What have I done but fuss, cry, and tear myself apart?_

Keira, who masked her strangeness from the world. Ygritte, who covered the mornings she couldn't move and evenings she disappeared. Regis. Geralt. Now Ciri and Triss...

Eskel...

"Forgive me," she stared into her lap, twisting her hands. "Seems I've mortified myself twice in one day. My mind is... frayed, being pulled in all different directions. I barely have time to stop and breathe or gather myself. In fact, I'm afraid to. I'm afraid to recognize what I am. Like something beyond my senses is waiting to sneak up on me when I least expect it."

"All is forgiven," he took one of her hands into his own, stroked her with his thumb.

"How was your return to Dilligen?" she asked, wishing to change the subject. "Dettlaff, how is he?"

Regis looked into the ceiling as he recalled, "It was... as I left it, you could say. Dettlaff manages. Grief affects us all differently, especially regarding our mates. He's here now, downstairs."

Laz furrowed her brow. Mates. Was that what they were? That explained her physiological and emotional response when it came to him. It also explained the strange state Regis was in. She'd never seen him so despondent.

Seeming to read her, he nodded solemnly. "I made the error not telling you sooner. I made many errors when it came to you and I."

"Is that regret I hear?"

He smirked. "Not at all, merely hindsight. I've never been romantically adept so I allowed the cards to fall as they may. Mistakenly I treated you like a normal girl…," He turned her hand palm upward and traced a vein along her arm with his claw. "When you are anything but. Power surges through you. Latent as it is, should you decide to tap into it, nothing but an equal could match you⎯an experienced sorcerer or another Djinn."

He smiled to himself, a hidden quip withheld. "Compared to them, knowing what I know, I could very well be just a man." His faint smile fell away, still weaving a lullaby through her bloodstream with every caress. "Ciri mentioned you're having trouble eating."

Laz couldn't open her heavy eyes, lulled by the sensation of his touch. "Mmm, yes. Eating is a chore."

"What is it that you crave?"

When Laz looked up, she spied a mischievous gleam in his eyes that stoked a fire she hadn't realized was smoldering  _until now._  Her own faint smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth, sliding her hands up his arms as she twisted to face him.

"A variety of things," she whispered coyly. No magic flowed through him, not the type she could feel and draw from, but what she couldn't feel through direct contact, she felt within her blood; a far deeper intimacy, she knew. Humming through her veins, intensifying the closer she got to him. Perhaps that was the reason it was so easy to locate him.

Regis pulled her into his lap, claws trailing gently down, her back while she brought her mouth to his. They delved into each other, tasting the soft flesh, the heat, the slick lips. No insults hurled from her tongue; no emotional distress fell from his. She arched into him when he gripped her buttocks until it hurt.  _Gods, be damned._  Magic or not, touching the vampire was a sensation she could never get used to. It felt otherworldly, sacred even.

Gripping the fabric, he tore her dress part. The fabric sighed in relief and surrender, or was that her? Laz pushed him onto his back and did very well the same with his tunic, tearing it open until she was smoothing her hands over his sinewy chest. Working her way down, she unfastened his belt and freed him, taking him into her mouth without delay. Regis hissed, baring his fangs and lifting his hips as she sucked on his hardened length. She worked her mouth against him, balancing him between pleasure and pain amidst strokes.

At last, he couldn't take it any longer and rose up, tossing her across the bed. He stretched over her, marking her neck and shoulder with hungry kisses laced with sharp fangs.

Spreading her legs, he pushed himself as deep as he could go until she was gasping and weeping. Buried to the hilt, he lowered himself atop her, finding her mouth to his. He kissed her again, deeply. Moving his hips slowly, he stroked her with his tongue and his hips, painting her mouth with blood with every lap. Laz moaned, swallowing the sound and the life he bled into her. She held onto his shoulders as he trembled against her. Working his hips into a slow, hot rhythm, she'd riled him up in such a way, Regis could barely move without jeopardizing their lovemaking. Her anger fed into him. The rawness, the sensitivity braided pain and pleasure into one. Regis flipped them around so that he sat up, returning her to his lap. She sank down low until her body could accommodate no more. She tongued the wound in his mouth, sighing with every heady pull, fighting Regis to move her hips despite how firmly he gripped her, reluctant to finish. In vain were his efforts. His gripped her ass firmly, claws biting into her soft flesh. Warmth blossomed inside her as Regis came despite himself. She came apart not long after him.

As the familiarity consumed them, Laz felt the strings of her heart tug and tauten. It'd been some time since she felt this whole.

"Gods be damned," she hissed through her teeth as they lay down for the evening. The bed was still in disarray from her earlier fit, but they managed. She pressed into his naked side, trapping one of his legs between hers and draped an arm across his stomach.

"What did they do now?" he smirked, tucking her close.

But she couldn't quite say.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laz receives word of a return to Toussaint.

The next morning Laz hadn't the time to digest how she'd come to share the same bed with two different men, for a sharp stabbing sensation ripped her from slumber. Something was carving up her insides with hot iron, stealing the air from her lungs. Gasping around the discomfiture, her sudden movement awoke Regis who slept next to her. As she sat up, clutching her stomach while the pain grated sharply, she looked down; without a doubt, something was  _very_ different. Throwing the covers back, she nearly screamed had the sound not caught in her throat.

What once looked like a belly after a more-than-adequate meal was now beyond that. From an unassuming condition to an outright, unmistakable pregnancy, Laz's stomach was the size of a ripe pumpkin. Regis sprang up, blinking while trying to comprehend what he was seeing. How was this possible?

"Regis," Lazarus gasped, gripping his arm in a white-knuckled hold. "What's happening!"

"The blood," he muttered, shocked by it all. "It must have been what you needed. What the baby needed, rather."

Another shudder of pain rippled from her lower abdomen. She could feel the baby shifting, adjusting itself until it was lodged beneath her ribs.

" _Gods have mercy_!" she blinked, swallowing another choked cry. "I can't bear this! What have you done!"

"What have  _I_ done?" Regis chuckled, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "My darling, it takes two to make a child."

* * *

Ultimately, the spasms past and a new normal presented itself. Laz could barely walk after a few days with Regis and not because of their insatiable sexual prowess, but because it truly was his blood she needed which had prompted a remarkable growth for their child. Now she looked as if she would pop at any moment, waddling to and fro. Eskel had made himself sparser as time progressed. Laz barely noticed, being too caught up in the vampire, and rightly so. When he commands most of your senses by presence alone, it's hard to notice anything or anyone else. Still, when she did see him passing, guilt weighed heavily on her shoulders. He refused to look at her or even acknowledge her existence.

 _It's for the best,_ she told herself.  _I've hurt him. I deserve this._

A quiet evening came. A storm, not conjured by Laz, brewed off the Blue Mountains, rumbling softly its arrival as if fed the lakes and rivers and gave the mountains their fresh snow. Regis ran a comb through her hair while they talked aimlessly over a matter of things.

"Is Ciri a sorceress?" she asked randomly.

"I suppose you could say that," Regis replied, tickling her shoulders with his claws as he parted her hair. "Her mother is a renowned sorceress, Yennefer of Vengerberg and as you know, her father is Geralt of Rivia; a remarkable and unparalleled witcher. Adoptive parents, mind you. But she learned from the best. I suppose she's more witcheress than sorceress."

Laz kept her eyes closed, focusing on his voice and the comb running through her hair. "How is it I don't see her casting any spells?" Even Eskel flung several Signs since she'd come around Kaer Morhen. Of course, she'd seen Geralt in action. And it was through contact that she sensed the magic dwelling within Triss Merigold. She imagined the redhead manipulated magic finely.

"A time before me, a time before you, whilst wandering the desert. I don't know the full story, but if I recall correctly, Ciri channeled Power through a forbidden element."

She opened her eyes, absentmindedly stroking and cradling her swollen belly.

"Fire, I believe it was. Of course, Ciri quickly learned the error of her ways, but not without a price. To spare you the details, it affected her in such a way, she renounced her Gift."

"Are you sure about that?" She'd seen Ciri once before in Geralt's memories. Separate of the stream, a stand-alone entity but their eyes had met and Laz knew the girl was just as separate of the memories as she was.

"I am no subject matter expert, but if there were a chance, I'm certain Ciri would have tried by now."

* * *

Bent over a timeworn text, Triss' eyes perused over the old language as fast as her mind could translate.

"It says here, so long as one is in the possession of the Seal, the Djinn has no other option than to obey the will of its master, whom should exercise great caution whilst doing so, should the Djinn apply their words in a literal sense," her eyes scanned further down the page before picking back up again, "Ah, the fate of the Djinn relies on the services provided by the one it holds dominion over the Seal-which we have yet to find. We've all heard of Mage Stammelford and his D'ao, which I believe had a rock for a Seal."

"Great, so let's go rock hunting," Lambert muttered. "Good job, Merigold.  _Great work_."

Triss glowered at the witcher.

"Some are talismans, depending upon the element." Geralt muttered, interrupting their argument. "It could be anything. Whatever the Djinn desires to pour its power into, that's it Seal. Keira will know."

Ciri paused from examining a wicked-looking dagger, "But Keira's dead."

"Trust me, Ciri. I know."

"While that is true," Triss continued. "She mustn't have fulfilled all of her wishes. Even if we have the Seal, she's still confined to this plane until Keira releases her from servitude."

Ciri slid the dagger back into its ornate sheath with a sigh before casting a wry look towards Geralt. "Sounds very familiar," she muttered.

Triss bit her lip and tried maintaining a placid expression. Changing the subject, she slapped the textbook closed and said, "I'm afraid there's only one alternative."

* * *

"Good evening," the sound of Dettlaff's voice surprised both Lazarus and Regis from their quiet musing by the fireplace where Laz rested her head in his lap.

"Ah, good evening, my dear friend." Regis smiled, revealing his pearly fangs. He glanced around. "Pardon the mess. I lost happened to have lost a stocking. What brings you up to our disheveled chamber?"

"Geralt and the others wish to speak to you on a rather personal matter," he stepped in, leaving the door open behind him. "I can offer my company while you attend to the matter."

Understanding, Regis kissed her before going, leaving her alone with the darker, colder higher vampire. Laz sat up and shifted closer to the fire's warmth.

After a lengthy silence, once the sound of Regis footfalls receded below, he asked. "How are you faring?"

Laz bristled and considered ignoring him. She still didn't forgive him for manipulating her in finding his lover Rhenawedd. Especially via the means in which he convinced her. Bitterness and shame warmed her cheeks as she stared into the flames. In them, she saw Beauclair.

"Better now," she answered honestly.

"May I?"

Laz jerked with surprise, finding him suddenly beside her and not across the room. He was gesturing towards her belly. She had half the mind to turn away and tell him to sod off. But then again, she felt she owed Dettlaff to an extent. He'd restored Regis from a puddle of gore into the man today-the father of her child. If not for that, there would be no Regis, at all. And the memory of his death passed on to her through Geralt made no indication they'd ever leave.

Laz forced herself to relax, nodding. In the end, they were both used as tools by the ones they loved. She couldn't blame him for his actions, no matter how reprehensible. Not while she'd tried to eat the duchy around the same time. Yes, they were more alike than not.

The vampire knelt, running a smooth hand over her swollen stomach. Inside, the baby jumped, sending gentle bumps against her side. Laz smiled without realizing it. Dettlaff began to smile too, although it was strained; an out-of-practice expression on a rather stoic individual. Even still, there was something charming about it.

"I'm sorry to hear about Syanna," she whispered, watching his hands stroke her stomach. He paused, the smile fell away.

"She reaped what she sowed," he murmured.

They gazed at one another, weighing how they felt, what they saw. How far they came within themselves. Laz couldn't pretend she was any better when it came to making decisions. Her and Dettlaff weren't entirely different. At some point, she'd lost control as well and tried destroying all of Beauclair while Dettlaff watched it burn. They were two ends of one spectrum and caught in the middle was Regis  _and_ the witcher.

"You are handsome," she said, resolute. She hoped to offer some sort of respite. His pain was so evident in his ice-blue eyes, even she began to feel it. "You'll find someone new. Someone who compliments you." He stared at his hands splayed across her belly. Claws meant for ripping and rending flesh and even bone were now delicately resting against a very vulnerable part of her body. The baby kicked and turned, jostling Laz with surprise.

"Ah, this is the most action I've seen all day," she smiled faintly

"She likes me," Dettlaff murmured.

"She?" Laz blinked.

He stood, nodding solemnly.

"Their hearts always beat faster than the boys."

* * *

In the strange ethereal ways vampires were, Dettlaff knew when the time to head down came. He offered his arm and strength, which she took gladly. The white gown Laz wore hung skirted her swollen feet. She felt as broad as a barn and as maneuverable as one, too. Strange, how a bit of blood stimulated the growth of a baby so fervidly. She wondered if Regis continued this, would her term be shortened? By how many months?

She was lost in her musing, so much so when Dettlaff steered her into the hall it took several moments to realize something awry had happened. The company that awaited her with grim features consisted of Geralt with Ciri at his side; Triss across the room crossed-armed and prim, a scowling Lambert, and unreadable Regis. Her eyes roamed for the last witcher, but he was not to be found. She supposed she should have taken solace in this, but couldn't find relief beyond her own guilt.

They all took on the same certain feature as though they had news to share and it was, without a doubt, terrible. She gripped Dettlaff's hand, finding the strength to stand and take the brunt of what they were about to tell her.

"What is it?" she breathed, staring at Regis who placed himself at her side.

"A decision has been met concerning your condition," he said, taking her hand that reached for him. He looked down and she refocused her directness onto Geralt, who uncrossed his arms and strode forth.

"We're going back to Toussaint," the witcher said. "To resurrect Keira."

* * *

" _You're going to what?"_

It was as if the floor went out from under her. She swayed.

_Not possible. Wouldn't dream of such a thing._

Dettlaff stepped closer and even with Regis at her side, she couldn't breathe right, let alone stand. Every effort to pull in the air was constricting, shuddering, wavering. Her vision grew dark around the corners, creeping in like a black fog. The same two words flashed across her mind like lightning:  _Resurrect Keira. Resurrect Keira._

**_Resurrect._ **

**_Keira._ **

"Geralt, do something." Triss' voice sounded a distance away, panicked.

"She's going to pass out," came Ciri.

"I'm here, Lazarus. Just breathe." Regis.

"Shit."

"Open your eyes. Look at me."

Laz dug her nails into Dettlaff and Regis' supporting arms and forced a lungful of air. She worked to breathe until the black fog receded until the icy panic lancing up and down her spine dulled then disappeared. Until those words were no longer roaring in her skull, but whispering, hissing, slithering like black tentacles against her neck and back.

"I'm fine," she whispered shakenly. She stood on her own, bracing her large belly and took a deep breath.

Triss stepped forward, ready as always to get the job done. "We'll take portals. Geralt, stop looking at me like that. We're running out of time." Laz suddenly felt plumper than ever. They were running out of time. Gods, they were running out of time.

"Someone please explain," she said, searching each face that stood before her.

A moment passed.

It was Triss who spoke up, "We believe you're still bound to Keira. She died before you were able to grant her three wishes. Before we can remove the spell, we first need you released from servitude."

 _Wishes?_  Laz never knew anything about wishes.

A split in reality erupted in a writhing fire. A black hole large enough to walk through yawned open. A dull roar fell from its maw and filled the hall with its tremulous din.

"I can only take one person," she called over her shoulder, holding the portal open with her arms stretched wide. No one seemed too interested to volunteer, however, Triss' eyes betrayed her, settling on Geralt. The witcher bristled and grimaced.

"You know I hate portals," he grumbled, taking an involuntary step back.

Ciri came forward, touching Laz's elbow. "Don't worry. We'll figure it all one. One thing at a time."

 _This,_ Laz finally understood,  _is_ _the reckoning I've been waiting for._


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company returns to Toussaint and unearths Keira's grave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long chapter! sitting at about 5.7K. I'm sorry but it needed to be done! Enjoy!

Beauclair was still amidst restoration like a wound, slow to heal. The workers moved quietly, methodically as they hauled charred wood, blackened debris, and heaps of rubble aside. But much progress had still been made.

Laz watched from afar, too tired to venture closer, too strange to walk among the normal denizens of Beauclair. Seeing the city wrenched her heart tightly. What a life she'd once lived. As a barmaid in the Pheasantry tavern so close to the palace grounds to a creature hiding in the far-flung mountain passes of Kaedwen. There was nothing left to say about the city, the duchy, or even Her Illustrious Grace. Geralt had been barred from returning here; Regis and Dettlaff had hoped to avoid the country as well and now watched the rolling hills and vineyard with equal grief and apprehension. This particularly party had spilt enough blood in the soil. And they were about to do much worse.

She turned away, facing the awaiting vampires at her flanks before following them to the cemetery. Gathered there, Geralt, Lambert, and reluctantly even Eskel prepared camp.

The soft prattle came to a still when the company regarded her with question.

"Right here," she indicated next to a felled tree riddled with moss and decay.

At once, Regis and Dettlaff began working their claws through the dirt, unearthing the grave. With every scrape and shovel, her heart flinched. Inch by inch, dread rose the deeper they dug. _This was it_. If what they said was true, Keira would be brought back from the dead to cast her final wish, and thus releasing Laz from servitude. What was to follow was beyond her. Hopefully, a lifted curse she prayed wouldn't imprint on her unborn child. She swallowed, feeling sick and flushed and closed her eyes to shake away the vertigo. Too soon, Dettlaff reached into the depths of the opened grave and pulled Keira's corpse from the dirt. A cold chill shot down Laz's spine causing the baby to kick restlessly. The clouds began to churn overhead, darkening with a distant rumble.

She took a step back as he handed the remains to Regis, who turned and settled the corpse along the ground carefully. They disappeared into the grave once more, gathering what was left: tatters of clothing and Keira's satchel found near at the bottom of the grave. She remembered this moment and all things leading up to it. Yes, it was all rushing back now whether she wanted it to or not. It was time to reckon.

Dried skin stretched taut over bone. What was left by the gnawing insects was discolored and brittle. Her mother's once lustrous straw-blonde hair now stiff and matted. _But she's not your mother. She took you, stole you from your family, and enslaved you._ Laz's stomach churned, the baby kicked again. She sank down onto her knees, unable to stand any longer. Regis glanced up in worry, but his features relaxed somewhat, given the circumstances, and he returned to his tasks. She had no more control over this love than she did her hate or hysteria. Seeing Keira reminded her of a time where the only emotion she felt towards the sorceress was love and adoration; now she felt too much, loved too many.

Triss brought a book made of some type of flesh closer to her face and read frantically. She held out a shapely hand and began to whisper softly. A slit on the front of the book opened, a mouth filled with crooked teeth and a seeking dead tongue. Laz closed her eyes, sickened by the sight.

The sky groaned, moaning a dim roll of thunder. Lightning flashed and cracked. The wind kicked up. Somewhere deep in the woods a pack of wolves began to yip and cry excitedly. Triss continued to incant words no one seem to understand. Hissing, guttural words of the dead that stenched the air of blood and decay.

A soft glow came from her extended hand, held out over the body of her dead mother.

_She's not your mother. Stop saying that._

Suddenly, Laz was terrified. Necromancy was a dark, sinister magic. The things that came back from beyond the grave were never quite the same, were they? What if Keira wished for something untoward? Something horrific and bizarre? The degree of which they remarked Laz's _servitude_ indicated she would have no choice in the matter.

A register of what-ifs crowded her mind causing the baby to writhe. Laz cradled her stomach and staunched the acrid taste of fear clinging at the back of her throat. What if she saw Laz's state and willed it against her? The Keira she remembered was never that cruel, but what of this one that waited beyond the grave? How tainted was one soul brought back from death?

The storm continued to brew, swelling and frothing like a cauldron ready to spill. But the rain never fell and the energy that hummed in the air seemed to wave back and forth, seeking release. Laz's skull throbbed dully. Against the ground, the corpse remained motionless, lifeless…

Triss only interrupted her incanting to turn her head to the side and spit. Blood colored her lips and tongue. Even the words demanded a sacrifice.

Still, Keira remained limp across the ground.

And then they all understood why: Triss couldn't bring her back. She hadn't the means or the talent for such an incantation. No one could bring her back. Not even the darkest, most sinister of sorcery. Laz let out the breath she'd been holding, smoothing her hands over her distended belly. It wasn't meant to be. Thank the gods.

However, a very small part of Laz had hoped to see her mother again.

_She is not your mother._

She shut her eyes. The words couldn't reach her, no matter how she willed her mind to believe them. They couldn't reach her like the rain couldn't fall. Eskel was next to Lambert, arms tightly crossed over his chest, focusing on the hole in the ground. All this time, Laz tried to avoid looking at him, but how could she not? The amber-glow of his eyes, the scar that cut his upper lip into a permanent but charming snarl, to the mop of mussed brown hair she'd more than once ran her fingers through. He was so handsome. So was Regis and they were both so tender when they loved her. What had she done but tear them open and claw apart their insides? She didn't deserve them.

"Why isn't it working?" Lambert barked.

"I⎯," Triss hissed in pain when a trickle of blood slipped over her lip. She wiped it away and glared. "I'm not a necromancer! _Geralt?_ "

The witcher shook his head, declining to make a remark.

A singular thought illuminated in Laz's mind, unfurling her curiosity. Stammelford once moved a mountain; a Djinn had done it for him. A D'ao, like her. What were they now? Dead? Buried deep with some forgotten tunnel or mine? Male or female? And where was this infamous mage? Was the Djinn his undoing? If it could move mountains… She thought of the dark, dark thing inside her. How it loomed and lurked, crowed and beat its black wings. Paws and talons pacing the endless void. A sweeping tail made of poisonous barbs.

And if that D'ao could move mountains. If she could shift into any animal with the snap of her fingers...

The redhead clapped the book closed, prompting the repulsive mouth to muttering something nasty and bare its stained teeth.

While they continued to argue, Laz knee-walked closer to the body. Her white gown soiled from the dirt.

"This wouldn't have been an issue had we asked Yennefer," Lambert muttered which threw Triss into a fury. The storm fed into their ire as they began to exchange a hurl of insults. Only the vampires looked on quietly as Laz leaned over Keira's corpse. Regis shifted uncomfortably but she met his eyes and shook her head.

She took Keira into her arms. Weightless and smelling of old decay and fresh soil, she brushed the stiff tendrils of hair from Keira's morbid face. She swallowed thickly, forcing the threat of sickness down. The baby writhed within. The witchers and the sorceress were too caught up arguing to see her place a hand on Keira's wilted chest. Ciri was paying attention and quietly knelt by her side. She placed a hand on Laz's back, and from there, a very soft hum channeled through. A sleepy power, desperate to awake.

Laz shut her burning eyes. The wind kicked up, moaning softly.

In her mind, she saw the void and the dark thing that was her essence lurking therein; like a caged animal, it paced, eyeing her as a predator would its prey. But she wasn't here for that, she was here for Keira. As before, she wasn't sure what to search for. So she imagined what it might be; a spark of light, of life. Anything. _Something_ to draw from. The darkness answered, conjuring the smallest flicker in the infinite black sea. Her attention snapped to the sparkle and held onto it, drawing it closer, pulling it from the pitch and compelling it. Ciri's Elder Blood began to sing a haunting melody that filled her head and fed her magic. A pressure descended upon them. Renounced her not, Ciri still held a powerful echo of it. Laz pressed her hand firmly into Keira's chest and then...

 _Stirring._ An answer from the other side. The little light in the sea of darkness grew, pulsing, growing stronger the closer it drifted. In her arms, Keira's body began to twitch and writhe, subtly at first and then with more distinction. The wind whipped, lifting her hair from her shoulders with every blowing gale.

Laz opened her eyes.

So did Keira.

So did the sky and the rain began to fall.

* * *

The dead sorceress gasped.

 _"Lazzzz-rrusssss_ ," a scratchy hollowness slithered through the decayed vocal cords of Keira Metz as she reached blindly for her daughter's face. Her fingers rattled, bare bones, gnarled yellow nails. They brushed her cheeks gently. Familiar, home. Laz stared wide-eyed, paralyzed by what she'd done.

 _It worked. Gods, it worked._ The severity of what she'd achieved overcame Laz as an icy shiver. She couldn't move and fought control over her mind to speak, to find words, to move forward so long as she didn't stop and think and allow the thing lurking beyond her senses to sneak up during this lapse of control.

"I've brought you back," Laz rushed to say hoarsely and in utter disbelief. An emotional knot seized her by the throat. Only a whisper could pass. "Tell me your final wish."

The emotional wounds caused by the event at Fyke Isle were still fresh, festering even. Here and now, holding the decaying figure of Keira Metz felt as if she was dying over and over in her arms. Laz could barely breathe, unable to stop the burning tears from coursing quickly down her cheeks. _At last,_ her mind cried, _at last._

Keira's last remaining eye rolled in its socket, unable to see or focus on anything. Milky, glazed over, blind. She laughed a sound only a corpse would, dry and unnatural rasp. "I n-n-never maaade any wishessss," she wheezed.

"Make them!" Laz gritted her teeth. "All of them! Whatever they are!"

"I wishhhhh," she wheezed, working useless deflated lungs long dried up. "For another chance. Restore me, Lazarus. Bring me back to life."

 _Yes_ , she thought suddenly, choking on a strangled cry. _I can do that. I will do that. It's what I want_. A second chance with her mother. How could she resist? The answers were finally here, held in her arms, within a spindly frame and rotten breath. She could finally heal. Closure was here.

Closure, at last.

An insatiable desire to fulfill the deed pushed all thought and reason from Laz's mind. Solely focused was she on _this very task._ Nodding frantically, Laz drew in a shaking breath as she held herself together. A second chance for all of them. Yes, for all of them. But before she could agree, no matter the urge to answer the demanding call, she had to make sure the rest of her wishes didn't compromise those around her now.

"What else!"

"T-true love… with a _witcher,"_ Keira coughed and a cockroach flew out of her mouth and sought safety in the opened grave. She lifted an arm, attempting to point. Despite being visually impaired, she pointed to the trio of witchers nearby. They stilled, uncertain what to make of her statement, and shared a collective confusion.

Laz squeezed her eyes. The power swelling inside her, begging to answer the wishes. It was hard to suppress. "And the last? Speak quickly!"

"My f-final wishhh," Keira sighed, the lifeless eye quivered, unable to cry or see the horns; the matching eyes, the twitching tail and all that she cast to hide Laz from the truth. "I wish...f-for your forgiveness..."

An emotional dam cracked and exploded. Laz pressed down on the sorceress sternum as the surging magic wrought violently through her. The light inside her mind grew brighter, blinding her while the tears fell liberally. The shine burned away the darkness, knitted Keira's flesh and brought the life and substance back into her eyes. Her pale hair unfurled, turning glossy and sheen once more. One by one, her signature features returned. Her lungs snarling for air, fingers no longer rotting bone but dainty and slender. Gnarled, cloudy nails now clean and pink. Keira's hands flew up, clutching around the Laz's wrist as the pain of resurrection wrought fire directly into her chest.

Keira was in pain; the healing magic unkind as it released into her body. The unforgiving power forging her together tore through her, unmade and remade once more. Dead, now alive.

Laz sucked in a sharp breath when it was suddenly over. The night swayed around her. The company froze by surprise as they beheld both Djinn and sorceress back from the grave.

Then white-hot agony.

Horrible, lancing agony whipped through Laz; the magic was punishing her for what she did. But it was a pain she knew too well; she had triggered the curse. Resurrection had a price and now they could all see what she endured by the hands of the very being she'd brought back to life. She pushed the sorceress from her lap, coughing and sputtering with her new lungs, while Laz embraced for the shift.

A long, plaintive cry came through her and the storm met it with its own.

* * *

Laz fell back, screaming. The pain rippled through her, popping her bones and raising gooseflesh. She was changing but the pain was moving, writhing with in. Different. At odds and frantic. Oh, gods, she was changing and...and...

"The baby is coming!" she shrieked. The stormed wailed overhead, lashing them with stinging rain. Long-spurred out of their argument, Triss, and the four witchers scrambled into action. Regis scooped her up from the dirt and rushed her towards his subterranean keep not far from Keira's grave. Her spine twisted, a strained scream tore through her throat. She held onto whatever she could grab. His hair, his sleeves, she tore at his clothes while they raced down the dusty stairs.

* * *

By the time they reached the end, Laz was hemorrhaging. Blood and rainwater soaked her white gown in alarming red and splashed on the flagstone and stairs. The sweet fragrant of peach blossoms battled the stagnant air and mildew. The iron braziers and sconces lining the walls coughed to the life as the witchers entered. Regis placed her on the makeshift cot, propped her feet and drew up her gown.

The desire to push overwhelmed Laz. She sat up, gripping the wool blanket beneath her and clenched her teeth. She pushed because⎯Gods be damned⎯her body was going to do it regardless. Another wave shuddered through her. She dug her heels into the cushions beneath her and bared down. A cry rose from her lungs, filled the damp mausoleum and caused the torches to sway whilst Regis knelt between her knees, ready to deliver their child.

 _The curse!_ She wanted to scream, fighting to stall it. _It's coming. It's coming. My baby. My baby._

"My baby!" she wailed. Another scream scoured her throat and squeezed her lungs. She gulped at the stagnant air, panting hysterically. Sweat mixed with rainwater glistened her brow and heaving chest. She pushed again. The pressure came. The pain reared a head, and⎯

* * *

Lost in the midst of contorting bones and hellish sounds, drifting beneath the din, was the tiniest cry. All others stepped back, fearing the worst, watching the horrible display as the curse attempted to emerge from Laz's broken chest but instead, fell onto its side. _..dead._

Silence swallowed the mausoleum sans one little report; small peeling cry rose softly.

In his arms, Regis held her. Ruddy, writhing, and upset was his newborn baby; a girl. Dark wisps of hair and darker eyes, she blubbered and hiccupped until she cried softly, stretching her limbs as she felt through the new world.

Laz dropped back against the bookshelves with her chest cracked open. Blood pooled in a dark, inky swath that painted the cot and dusty flagstones. The fire tracing gilded lines within the dark pool. Regis had trouble understanding what he was seeing⎯what it all meant. Why it was so quiet and why neither wolf nor woman were moving. Malformed and disfigured, half the animal hung from Laz's chest cavity and across the floor. It was missing its hind legs, its lower jaw deformed as if it hadn't fully developed itself in time.

Regis stared in muted horror, slowly realizing… His eyes burned. He was forgetting to breathe.

"The curse …," Triss whispered, afraid to move closer. "It didn't make it."

"What the hell just happened? Is she dead?" another said.

Keira stepped forward using Lambert as a crutch to steady her news legs. They were all equally stunned, attempting to understand of the incomprehensible.

"Lazarus?" someone else asked in a strained voice. Keira.

But Laz's golden eyes stared fixed and unfocused, arms spread with half an animal mid-crawl hanging from her torso.

Regis couldn't breathe.

Shakened, he looked down at the baby in his arms and began to cry.

* * *

Humming softly, Regis watched the fire while he cradled his daughter in his arms. Hours drifted by and soon enough darkness reigned over the country of Kaedwen. In the tower, he sat riddled with despair and surmounting questions. He was at a loss but not entirely; he was a father now but also a widower.

At last, the sorceress came. He'd heard her climbing the steps long before she reached the door and gave it a knock. Her heart hammered but not with fear or apprehension. Excitement? Never before had she gone before a higher vampire and here she was now, hoping to reach a middle ground, he presumed. Regis wasn't feeling generous either. He'd lost so much in a single evening, what could he possibly spare now?

"Good evening, Regis," Keira Metz purred, stepping through the doorway wearing a scanty gown, glossy lips, and hair flowing around her bare shoulders.

The vampire set his jaw and paused his rocking.

"What do you want?" he kept his voice low and soft so not to disturb his slumbering daughter cradled to his chest.

"Just a moment of your time. And hers."

Regis took a few measured breaths. The statement didn't warrant a response. He did not owe Keira Metz even _that._

"Several things I'd like to bring to your attention." Keira propped her hands akimbo. "You should be grateful, vampire. If not for me, Geralt would have found her long before the two of you crossed paths and banished her back to the other realm, or worse. Do you know what that's like? Sleeping under the same roof as your murderer?"

"I've tried my best understanding the lot of things you humans subject yourselves," Regis' voice was calm but beneath the smooth baritone was contempt and disdain. Beyond that, despair. "I fear your workings exceed even my thorough comprehension."

The party had returned to Kaer Morhen the same day, putting Laz's remains to rest in the cemetery outside of his temporary home. The only person with the power of resurrection was dead; the irony. After all that had transpired, and because the witcher was so widely recognized, they left Toussaint to avoid any further transgressions. And to everyone's relief sans Regis. On the other hand, he felt completely taken aback. One moment, a life stretched before them. The next, he was a bereft father and without his mate. A deeper, more powerful bond that went beyond the grave.

In the tower, where he wished to mourn in peaceful solitude with just he and his daughter, Keira made it clear she wouldn't give him any such solace. Already she'd taken interest in one of the witchers, Lambert, who met her with an equal fervid interest. But it had been her wish and therefore so it shall be. Regis found due to the circumstances now was not the time for romance. And certainly not the time to pretend to be a grandmother to _his_ daughter. Not after what she'd done to Lazarus.

"I raised her, Regis." Keira almost pleaded. Was that strain he heard upon her voice? "I am that child's grandmother." She sniffled, unable to play with the emotions of four-hundred-year-old vampire. "And I don't even know her name."

"I don't imagine you understand grief as I do," he added, ignoring Keira to he gaze down at the slack features of his daughter. "I have lost her, the mother of my child. _My mate_. She was very special to me." He cleared his throat and worked to find his voice amidst the turmoil. "And you have the audacity to stand there and look at me- _at her_ -and pretend you had no part in all of this?"

He turned in his seat to glare at her, "After all you have done. You _cursed_ her."

Keira looked away, unable to withstand the cold regard that came from Regis' black gaze.

"You're right," she said softly. "I wronged her many times over. I lied to her as she grew into a woman. I fed her nonsense to keep the questions at bay, to keep her lineage a mystery because I was afraid of what the truth might set free. And for that, I am sorry. Truly."

"And the curse?"

"Lycanthropy. If you knew anything about her, you'd know Djinn are unable to shift into wolves. It causes them to vanish, disperse into nothing. It guaranteed an unbreakable loyalty via lupine genes while simultaneously rendering her power into dormancy. What I did was to protect everyone. Have you any idea what Djinn are capable of?"

"Love? Compassion?" his voice trembled subtly. "You didn't even spare her a chance to prove you wrong." A moment passed of silence. Only the lapping flames and popping embers filled the space, the soft sounds of his child's breathing.

"Dettlaff and I will leave for Dillingen on the morrow," Regis continued. "You and your entourage-whomever that might include-will have no part in her youth." He stood carefully, gently swaying the little bundle in his arms. Neither he nor his daughter cast a shadow. Oddly, that pleased him. "Before I leave, I want to know one thing: was that her final death?"

A moment passed.

"I'm afraid it was," Keira braved a step away from the door, coming closer. "Only one Djinn can represent each element at a time. Your daughter now represents that element until she passes it on to her offspring. So long as there is no one to inherit the element's essence, Djinn are immortal."

Regis chuckled beneath his breath. It was not funny; it was tragic. "What of the curse now?"

"I believe," she paused, forming her words with palpable reluctance. "It must have transferred hosts. There won't be any signs until she's older."

It took all of Regis' principles and moral foundings to not rend the sorceress apart. He had to shut his eyes, be still, focus. It took another moment of reasoning before he could move, pinning Keira with his black gaze.

"You will remove it," he said softly. "Or you'll find yourself back in that grave you. This I swear to you."

* * *

Keira made a promise and even despite that she just rose from the grave and felt more alive than she had before, she knew what she was dealing with, what Regis was. She was also a sorceress, a renowned one from the very Lodge itself and she would not be intimidated by some blood-drinking _creature._ Lazarus belonged to her and what was Laz's was also hers.

And that included the child.

In Midscope, when she stumbled upon Fyke Isle and the workings of Mage Stammelford in legible writing, she delved into the archaic language without a second spared. There, she found an incantation that opened a portal to another world: the D'ao realm. She hadn't expected a child to come falling through, a babe at that. The girl's traits were unmistakable. The little horns, the short hairless tail. Much like Stammelford obtained his Djinn, Keira had claimed her own.

But unlike Stammelford⎯who allowed the Djinn its own free will which brought him to an untimely end⎯Keira was not that foolish. While Regis might have believed Lazarus was an affectionate, even compassionate person, she wasn't a person _at all._ She was an entity, an ethereal being with a colossal power so vast and unimaginable the human mind couldn't grasp such magnitude. Vampires included. The horns and tail was merely a simpler physical state she inhabited. There was much more beneath the veil. Much more. And worse.

"Fine," she almost spat. "I'll remove the curse. Now, _please_. May I hold her?"

Regis raked her figure with a cold once-over, more than likely categorizing her as a harmless female. Even better. Caution darkened his eyes as he turned away from the fire and approached her. She needed to act quickly. Far quicker than the speed of a fully matured vampire

Moving from the door, she held out her arms, ready to receive the little one. Thank the gods he couldn't read her mind. They met in the middle, snaking her arms beneath his as she delicately took purchase of the babe. Keira couldn't help herself, cooing a little as she smiled down at her granddaughter. Unmistakably, there was a pleasant mixture of Regis' noble features and Laz' unique beauty. Keira had always wanted a baby of her own. It was the very reason Lazarus was so important to her. As a child, Laz was rowdy and mischievous, putting her hands and attention where it didn't belong. Creating messes, fussing, and conjuring when Keira wasn't looking. There was once Keira had to go toe-to-toe with a leshen attempting to mark her.

But Laz was gone, but not the well of infinite power. _This_ was what she meant when she wanted a second chance. With a halfling, at that. What kind of abomination would this little girl grow into? Half Vampire. Half Djinn. She couldn't imagine, but she was very curious and wished to see how she developed every step of the way.

With a shapely finger hidden in the fold of her arm, Keira drew a symbol in the air, conjuring an illusion. A duplication spell; a minor parlor trick, nonetheless a decent one that showed Keira still standing there, rocking the infant, cooing and sighing wistfully. Because this nameless child was not fully vampire, the illusion struck true. Had she attempted to cast this very spell over Regis it would have failed. Vampires and magic repelled one another. It was a science no academy or scholar could understand.

In reality, she was backing up, whispering another incantation that opened a quiet portal directly behind her.

The illusion waned at the last moment, shimmering with flame's light before revealing Keira standing before a quiet rippling distortion. Its report easily mistaken for the winds carrying down the Blue Mountains.

"It was a pleasure, Master Vampire." she smiled, stepping through as the portal collapsed around her.

* * *

Lambert awaited her at the meeting point far from the witcher's keep. Two horses were saddled and readied for their journey. Provisions had been packed. Weapons stoned and either rested in their scabbard or wrapped in furs and strapped to the horses. Respective oils had been applied and their equivalent potions at the ready. Lambert was taking no chances.

Stepping through a small sliver of shadows, the quiet and cold night welcomed the sorceress right on time. The witcher smiled as he watched Keira wave her hand down the length of her body. The gown she wore faded, replaced by a thick gambeson, men's trousers and riding boots. A sword hung from her hip.

"I'm impressed," he smirked. "How did the vampire react?"

She shrugged, sauntering towards her horse. "I didn't linger long to find out. Upset, I suppose. To horse, shall we?"

"To horse."

Westward, they rode as fast as they could out of Kaedwen without disturbing the child. Vizima was their destination. The incentive was to ride south until they reached the Lexia river, following it between Ban Ard and Ban Glean until it flowed into the Pontar. From there, heading due west following the Pontar, it would lead them to what used to be Temeria before the war. King Foltest was dead, this she'd known. So returning to the Temerian court halls-much less any court hall- was a thing of the past, despite how adamantly she wished otherwise. Once into Nilfgaardian occupied territory, keeping the Mahakam mountains to their left, Carreras was a week's ride away. If things went accordingly.

When the sun started to rise, the sorceress ordered they take refuge within the dense forest. She wished to remain hidden amidst day and travel only at night. Lambert agreed, scouting first then setting camp when neither bandits nor beast occupied the area. Casting a concealment spell, they rested comfortable next to their fire.

"I take it you wished to return to Carreras," the witcher muttered, tossing the saddles bag onto the ground. He tethered the horses and started brushing them.

"It's where most of my things are," she sighed, kicking off her boots. "My home. What's left of my family. Artifacts and boons still important to me."

"What do you plan on doing with the kid?"

She lifted her pale green eyes to his and smirked, "That is not important right now. Foremost, we need to get as far away from Kaer Morhen as the Northern Kingdoms will allow. In case you've forgotten, I just stole a higher vampire's child."

"Trust me," Lambert snort, running the comb down his horse's flank. "I'm well aware."

* * *

Without the cold elevations of the mountains, the day was warmer than Keira preferred. When dusk finally came, at last, they saddled quickly and continued on. If they were fortunate, Ban Ard would be three to four-day ride, five if they rode on for Ban Glean, stopping only to water and rest the horses, feed the kid, and take turns resting.

"Perhaps I should name her," Keira said, keeping her voice low to prevent the darkness from carrying it off at a great distance.

Lambert said nothing. He wasn't designed to care for such trivial matters like namesakes and whatnots. Keira, on the other hand, couldn't wait.

Looking down at the headful of dark hair and midnight black eyes, the little girl reminded Keira of a crow. Dark, clever little creatures. As a vampire-djinn hybrid, she could only imagine what type of mischief the child would soon conjure. And crows were always up to something tricky.

"Maybe I'll name you Raven," she whispered. "And call you Rook when you're being sweet. What do you think, witcher?"

Lambert grunted with a shrug which she ignored.

The little features set in a pudgy, youthful face twisted in the darkness and silvery moonlight. A tiny cry rose and fell between a series of hiccups. Trapped in her swaddle, she squirmed her frustration.

"Oh ploughin' hell," Keira grumbled, steering her horse to the side of the road. "I'm surprised we made it this far without her fussing. She must be hungry."

Using one arm to cradle the baby, she twisted around in her seat and stuffed her hand inside one of the hanging saddle bags. A wineskin of goat's milk was somewhere. She could warm it with an incantation just as soon as she figured out where it was.

Leaning back, straining to feel for the wineskin, the bundle in her arms loosened, felt to be slipping. Keira jerked upright out of reflex, coddling the bundle. It collapsed oddly in her arms. She blinked, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. The swaddle... was empty. She unraveled it quickly as if the night played tricks with her sight but it was true. The swaddle _was empty._

 _"Lambert?"_ she said in a warning tone, glancing left and right towards the ground. Had she dropped the baby? Even the cry still hung in the air like a spectral whisper dancing on the night's wind.

"What is it?" he asked, looking over his shoulder.

She held up the blanket used for the swaddle.

"The baby's gone."

* * *

 

**_-End of Part 1-_ **


	11. Part II : Advice and Vices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abandoned as a child and raised by a hunter, Misery does not shy away from her nature. In fact, she embraces it, cultivates it, and uses it to her full advantage. But as suspicions take root and begin to grow in her home of Ban Gleann, its time she sets out to provide her unconventional services―and addiction―to anyone desperate enough to ask.
> 
> As she does, drifting further and further away from the Northern Kingdoms and into southern territory ruled by a simple duchy, her services fall under a new name: Mercenary. But she calls it something else. While Misery might not do it for the gold and fame, her prowess still spreads like a wildfire. As it does, more and more people want to know just who is Misery Black? Where did she come from? If she's not a witcher, how is she able to bring some of the most powerful monsters to their knees?
> 
> And why does she only target vampires?
> 
> Nonhuman and well aware of the fact, she hacks and rends in the name of Her Illustrious Graces. However, with every cut and slice, it's bringing her closer and closer to questions she would rather remain unanswered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't fit both part 1 and 2's summary together so there it is all alone and scared. But finally! we're here! This part will also be only 10 chapters.

like one thing leads to another.

like one heart bleeds for another.

* * *

_**Chapter 1: Advice and Vices** _

Royal Black hated this feeling. This gut-wrenching tightness was twisting his insides to knots. It grew, becoming heavy; an uncomfortable weight sitting in the pit of his stomach as though it were dragging him to his grave.

It was dread. It was guilt.  _ _It was Misery.__

All of it lay so deep.

So this was what it felt like to have a broken heart.

The cabin where they lived was dark and quiet but inside Royal's head was so much beseeching and emotional turmoil. Flashes of white panic lanced him like a blade as he watched his daughter gather her things to leave.

"You don't have to go, child." His gruff voice was thick with emotion. "Who care's if they grow suspicious?" A rugged and well-seasoned man should never sound so weak. A man such as Royal Black never cried. Not a day in his life. But right now... right now might be the very first time.

His daughter paused from slipping a dagger into its hidden sheath then continued, busying herself while avoiding his pleading gray eyes. She'd made that dagger, much like she made the greaves and vambraces she currently wore. So much time and effort he poured into her, only for her to leave him so soon, so abruptly.

__Just look at me once more, before you go. Tell me you love me. Tell me you won't leave._ _

Her ink-black hair was weaved into a thick braid that rose and fell from her crown like a Mohawk. His little girl, not so little now, was always different. It's what made her special. Gods, he'd shared so much with her.  _So much._ How could she turn away from it all under little suspicion? This entire village couldn't hold a candle up to her. Why was she so afraid? The dark heather-gray half-cloak he made for her hung by the door. As long as it did, there was still time.

She made a move towards it, sending Royal's heart shooting painfully into his throat, but instead, picked up her bow and studied it. Another item she made herself. While Royal taught her how to hunt and prepare the meat; how to sharpen a blade and aim an arrow, she taught him how to love and feel. They were a team: Royal Black and his little queen.

"Misery," he whispered, an undertow of begging in his tenor. "You don't have to do this."

"I do," she snapped, still refusing to meet his gaze. " _I must._  People are starting to wonder, and I can't live like this.  _ _We__ can't live like this. All these secrets and hiding."

She settled her dark gaze onto him, weighing him down with it. It was quite apparent magic was at work when those looked upon Misery's unusual features. Much of the village presumed she was part Elf, some sort of ancient or malignant vein, for her features were sharp and unforgivingly comely as if she was some by-product of the Wild Hunt. He never corrected them. Better they assume her to be an Elf, than what she indeed was.

From the moment he discovered her crying and abandoned in the foothills of the Mahakam mountains several months back, she'd grown at a tremendous rate. People were beginning to notice something was off. How did Royal return from his hunt with a toddler at his side? Where was that toddler now? And who was the skulking teenager hiding inside his cabin until dark? Another victim he kidnapped on one of his many hunts? Who  _was_ Royal Black?

Still, it was a risk he was willing to make. In the little time together, he saw her as his own; his daughter and even provided her his last name. Her charisma and cleverness gave him the laugh lines around his mouth and crinkled the crow's foot of his eyes. These walls for years had never heard him laugh until one return from a hunt.

But now, he only felt the fear of losing her. His charming Misery.

"At least wait until winter is over," he pleaded. "The cold will kill you."

Naturally, as any father would do when faced with the challenge of his baby bird leaving the nest, he tried stalling her, reasoning and negotiating as best as he could. She wouldn't have it.

Misery said nothing, reaching for her cloak. The end of Royal had come. She swept it over her shoulders, breaking Royal's heart every step she drew closer to the door. Gathering quiver, bow, and adjusting the sword and scabbard hanging from her belt, she placed her hand on the door and paused.

"I love you," she whispered over her shoulder. "And thank you. For everything."

Royal made a noise caught between a choke and a cry. This pain was unbearable, burning his face and chest. He was suffocating with despair.

She turned away, striding across the room, and placed a kiss on his cheek, leaving the black stamp of her lips on his skin.

Then she left, disappearing into the bright night with its full moon to leave Royal in horrible, horrible silence.

* * *

 _Dienne Mallory hated visiting Hunter Black's cabin. He was taciturn and coarse, and therefore not the friendliest of the Ban Gleann populace. But she was the town's milkmaid, and if she didn't make her rounds as ordered, her mother would have her up all night cleaning out the stalls with her bare hands. So_ _she mounted the worn path that would lead her to the edge of the thicket. Therein in the shadow, just past a break in the trees was the man's isolated homestead._

_It's just a regular cabin, Dienne! she chided herself. A dark, foreboding, and gloomy establishment._

_Royal Black was his full name, but everyone just referred to him as Hunter Black, because it was what he spent most of the time doing. Pelts, mounted antlers, fur caps for armor, and hide; the lot of Ban Gleann treated him also as their local butcher. But like Dienne, it was a hard pill to swallow when approaching Hunter about a favor. It wasn't that he was difficult, it was how unapproachable he seemed. Quiet, reclusive, and separated even by his home's placement, Ban Gleann was a small village where secrets were hard to hide and enemies even harder to avoid. Dienne's mind flew back to the time he returned to one of his excursions with a child, instead of a dead animal. He was a father apparently so he couldn't be too mean, could he? Dienne's own mother suggested she pay a visit to see if she could get to know the girl, appearing to be about the same age. But once again, Hunter wasn't having any of it, and while he didn't deny there was a child in his midst, he didn't confirm it either._

_At the entrance of the grove, Dienne took a deep breath and closed the remaining distance, almost stomping her way up the path. I will not be intimidated. I will not be intimidated. But now that she stood before the worn door, fist posed for a heavy knock; she felt her heart quicken beneath her breast._

_3...2...1.._

_She knocked hard and fast._

_From within, she heard someone curse, a chair groan, then footsteps. The door cracked open fast, revealing Royal Black and his hard steel gaze. If a look could cut, Dienne's head would be cleaved clean from her shoulders._

_A cloth colored in blood was pressed to his neck._

_"Weekly milk run," Dienne murmured, lifting her small crate of cow's milk._

_Royal winced, adjusting the cloth firmly to his neck. "Right, give me a minute." He disappeared, leaving the door cracked enough Dienne could spy a blazing hearth, a blanket and... a pair of eyes._

_Dienne sucked in sharply. The girl was wrapped up in a blanket, staring straight into Dienne's soul with eyes bound in the blackest night._

_A friend..._

_"So the rumors were true," Dienne breathed, pushing the door wider, lulled by the dark gleaming eyes studying her. She took a step past the threshold. "There are not many children in Ban Gleann. My name's Dienne. What's yours?"_

_The curious gaze set in a pale friendly face blinked. Around the child's head, the blanket hid what color of her hair was, but Dienne guessed by her dark brows, she was black of haired. The Hunter's hair was also black. Maybe they_  were _related._ _Her mouth reminded Dienne of the Fae, Elder Folk, who possessed features too beautiful to behold. And blood? A dark substance smudged her mouth._

_Dienne stopped suddenly, coming to her senses. Royal. The cloth pressed to his neck. The secrets. This girl. Blood on her lips._

_Not a friend..._

_Her mouth went dry from fear but those black eyes called to her, forced her feet to drag across the floor and soon she was standing before this girl very close to Dienne's age. There her knees buckled, and she sank to the floor as if shoved into a kneel. The blanket slid away, revealing the blue-black hair that fell in inky ribbons about her pale shoulders._

_The girl smiled, revealing her fangs and blood-coated tongue._

_Dienne wanted to scream and run, but she could only blink and watch in frozen horror._

_The girl leaned forward, sliding off her wooden stool with the grace of a serpentine._

_Footsteps. Royal's commanding voice. Dienne's own pounding heart._

_But it was too late for Ban Gleann's milkmaid as the girl shot from her seat, tackling Dienne to the hard floor. A sharp white-hot pain seared through her neck as the girl buried her teeth into her. If Dienne could have cried out, all of Ban Gleann and perhaps even Ban Ard could have heard her. But there was no air in her lungs, and soon, there would be no blood in her body as the girl began to pull headily. She could feel it whooshing through her, hear the gulps against her ear. Her chest burned, head pounding._ _The room grew darker. Sounds distorted and fell away. It seemed the floor was opening up for Dienne, accepting her into its grave depths._

_Then it all went quiet._

_"By the gods...," Royal breathed, stepping out from the back._ _"What have you done?"_ _A lifeless body now strewn across the floor awaited him. Misery released her bite and scampered back, suddenly remorseful._

_"I'm sorry, father." Misery murmured, touching her bloodied lips with her fingers as if to hide what she'd done. "I was so hungry... I couldn't think straight. Her heart was pounding... I...I wanted her."_

_Royal tried to remain as calm as the circumstances allowed. He didn't want her to panic and flee to the woods as she usually did when overwhelmed. Instead, he scrubbed a hand down his face and respired heavily._

_"I'll take care of this, just..." he pursed his lips then pinned her with a hard look. "That's what I'm here for, Misery. I am what you must survive off of. You can't do this to innocent people. It's wrong."_

_Misery lowered her eyes onto the girl growing paler and colder by the second. Royal shook his head and turned away to search for a rug he didn't care for or bed sheets. Something to wrap the body._

_When he disappeared into the rear of the cabin, Misery finally moved away from the corner she wedged herself._ _She touched the girl's cold face, cupped the chin and turned her lifeless eyes skyward. Dienne Mallory. Her family owned a dairy farm just down the road from here. She was a good kid, brave, and ambitious. Hated how early she had to rise to tend to the farm, but loved taking care of the animals. Misery knew this because the blood told her. Like Royal's blood, she culled from it, gathering memories, talents, skills... But she couldn't pick and choose what to learn. Everything came. Their sadness. Their shortcomings. Their insecurities. Dienne had come once before in search of Misery, in search of a friend. She had two older brothers and another sibling on the way._

_Frowning, she moved closer, cradling the dead girl. She lowered her head, listening to the quiet chest where her heart had stilled. Respiring, Misery closed her eyes and focused. Willed. Demanded. The blood answered, stirring once more, flooding the veins. The cold skin held against her arms warmed again. Then it came. A faint thunder. It grew, strengthening, obedient..._

_Dienne Mallory opened her dark brown eyes to the world once more. A little paler, a little woozier than she understood._

_But when Royal returned from the back bedrooms, she was gone._

_All traces and remnants of Misery's terrible secret nothing but a dream._

* * *

Grim-faced, Misery set out to wander the Northern Kingdoms. Southward, she headed, not for any particular adventure but because it was only a matter of time before the curious denizens of Ban Gleann turned on her and her father for witchcraft or dark sorcery, if they were fortunate of such consignment.

She'd heard the whispers and the rumors seeping through the slats of the hunter's old cabin. Talks of sinister magic, sacrifices, and blood offerings to some dark lord dwelling beneath the nearby mountains. Why else did he have marks on his neck and wrists? They didn't understand the reasoning behind it. Royal Black had been nothing but nurturing in her hours of growth, as any father would. Having never married, he had no children of his own and was willing to do he could to provide for the child he suddenly came to have. When he took her in, claimed her as his own, and raised her as best as any man, he knew fortwith she was not human. Fangs, night-black eyes, and pale no matter how much she sat in the slice of sunlight during the day; she also had an unconventional appetite. One which Royal met with an open mind and empathy. It was the reason she grew so quickly, maturing unnaturally like a ruthless weed. Having only lived in Ban Gleann for a year, she took on a figure and maturity that suggested early to mid-twenties. Albeit, she'd only been on this earth a little over a year. Culling gave her the experience she lacked timewise.

How was that possible? Simply put: it wasn't. But because of Royal's sacrifice, it was manageable. Without him, Misery wasn't certain surviving would be easy, but she had a plan.

_You can't do this to innocent people. It's wrong._

And now it was time to leave before the locals grew too curious or did something harmful to Royal out of scorn and confusion. Misery wouldn't be able to contain herself if they came too close out of curiosity. Even at this moment, she wanted to stalk door to door and berate them for their lingering eyes and careful whispers. For putting her in this position, to begin with.

It took one mishap for Misery to learn she had to be careful, relying on Royal wholeheartedly until it was starting to take a toll on his health.

This was for the best. At least wherever she ended up, she would be a stranger. Another unknown face in the crowd. They wouldn't know what she was capable of. What she did to survive and how it changed her. The culling. They wouldn't know.

And in such a vast world still bleeding and healing from so many wars, the guilty and the punishable were out there. She just had to find them.

Yes, this was for the best.


	12. Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Misery starts her trek, heading south through the Northern Kingdoms.

Three days later, Misery reached another nameless village and with it a variety of new faces. Very few paid her mind, glancing at her or even past her thinking of some distant unseen memory. She wandered on through the muddy road churned by wagons, carts, and horses straight for what smelled to be their inn.

Ambling never did help expedite her route, but with no destination in mind, she was in no certain rush and Misery intended to walk until no roads were left to roam. After a quick check of the notice boards, she entered the tavern and sat directly in front of the keeper.

"What kennah get ya, lass?" The busty woman had ruddy cheeks and an angry wart on her eyebrow, but pleasant nonetheless.

"A dark ale," Misery said, sweeping the tavern with her eyes. "If you have any..."

"I've got a Nilfgaardian porter that'll put some hair on yer arse," the keeper muttered as she waddled away.

For a moment, she considered ordering some food. Often Misery's appetite was deep and bottomless. What she managed on her way south wasn't much. A peeping tom whom she left in the fields for the crows to feast on and a butcher who slipped human meat into his supply and sold it to the public. His body was hanging from the meat hooks within his dry storage.

And that was it.

So it wasn't a stretch to say Misery was hungry.  _Very_ hungry.

" _Aye, a phantom, I tell ya_." A conversation across the pub continued. " _You can hear her howling throughout the night."_

The tankard slid into view, froth spilling over the lip and sliding down. Misery brought it closer and skimmed the surface with a quick sip. She drew several shillings and placed them atop of bar, and listened.

_"Crops are dyin'. Reckon it's the Gods punishing us for what 'appened to that girl. For not doing anything."_

_"Oh, fuck the gods! S'just a bad season, Ronnie. No rain is all."_

_" Aye perhaps. I put up a contract for it. N'ain't much, but maybe a witcher will come and end her misery."_

On that note, Misery brought the tankard to her dark lips and drank deeply. After several hearty gulps, she sat the empty mug down and carefully dabbed her lips, still listening to their heated discussion.

 _Witchers, witchers, witchers_. That's all wanted to talk about. Every village sang the same tune, trembled with the same fear. Misery had never seen a witcher, couldn't separate one from the next man, but one thing was clear; they needed to be avoided if she intended to make it out on her own. Her deeds were far from heroic and never would she claim to be doing the world a service because of it. Simply speaking, killing was how she survived. It was only Royal's words still clinging to her that kept her from draining this entire tavern. As long as the sun rose and fell, as long as man's moral compass skewed and the ill-intent eclipsed their humanity, Misery would have something to eat. She never touched the innocent. Royal's rule. The only rule she followed.

For now, she refocused on the small throng of broad men across the room.

* * *

_Ronnie..._

A disembodied whisper. The subject in question was settling in for the night when he heard the terrible sound: someone other than him⎯or his own thoughts⎯whispering his name. Terrible, also, because he lived alone.

Posed with one knee on the bed, the covers peeled back, he paused and looked around; the room was empty. He  _hoped_ it was empty. A single candle flickered and danced, struggling to stay alight against a phantom draft he couldn't feel himself. The shadows pressed in, prickling him with gooseflesh and an unpleasant shiver. He felt watched. Perhaps it was just in his head. Drunk as he was, he strained his ears nonetheless. Had he heard his name? Or had it been the wind seeping through the wooden slats of his home? Perhaps he was weary from the toils of the day or imagined it all together. As the deductions played rhyme and reason, the fear abated.

But not the unease of being watched.

A corner in his room suddenly appeared much darker than before, and now demanded his attention, even. Ronnie put his weight down in his knee, sinking closer into the bed, unable to tear his eyes from that particular area where the shadows seemed the thicken and writhe like maggots. Now his fears were rising from their slumbers again to play with his mind and quicken his heart. Yes, Ronnie certainly felt as though he was being watched. The fear was back, sinking its icy claws into his shoulders, breathing down his neck.

Something was in the room with him.

And it was in that corner.

_What happened to that girl, Ronnie?_

_There! The voice!_  Ronnie went stiff, not of fear but... _.he couldn't move at all,_ even if he wanted to. And he wanted very much to spring from the bed and barrel down the hall. He was stuck with one knee pressed into the mattress, half-way crawling into bed.

 _Tell me what happened to the girl..._  the shadowy corner seemed to pulse as the unseen force spoke again. A rough and guttural voice, speaking with several tenors and octaves that came strained and grief-stricken all at once: a chorus of mourners. His skin prickled with fear, tiny spiders creeping down his shoulders and back.

"S-she was hanged," he managed, the words came of their own accord as if drawn or even forced from his mouth. It was holding him in place; it could force him to speak. What else could it do? If possible, Ronnie was prepared to beg for his life.

_Who hanged the girl?_

_"_ H-her mother and father," he lost control of his bladder, a flush of heat flowing down his thighs. He was glad he couldn't whimper. "They thought she was a witch so they hanged her by the field. Every full moon, you can hear her screams."

 _How old was she, Ronnie?_  and then... _Don't cry._

It sounded human, whatever slipped through. A woman's voice. Ronnie blinked several times, freeing the burnings tears to stream down his face. "Seven, I b-believe. I tried to stop them, I swear!"

He fell onto the bed in a whimpering heap as soon as the inhibiting force vanished. The shadows receded from their corner until Ronnie was able to make out the wall and the furnishings within the area. He did not sleep that night and was far too afraid to check on the Galbraith family, for fear he may cross paths with the thing that visited him in his bedroom.

It would be weeks before the discovery of Mr. and Mrs. Galbraith's bodies. At a glance, it appeared they had passed away in their sleep, if not for the way their faces were contorted in agony, mouths posed in a permanent, soundless scream. There were no infliction wounds, nothing to explain how all the blood had been drained from the bodies, leaving a withered husk of what once had been a human.

A name had been scrawled on the wall. Not with blood or carve into the wood, but soot. It was the name of the deceased girl.

* * *

Well rested and ready to follow the roads once more, Misery cinched the leathered corset around her torso until it was comfortably snug. A belt came next which concealed a variety of cutlery from wicked daggers to curved neck knives for spilling throats in a single swipe. After that, she buttoned the cuffs on her navy tunic and donned her leather vambraces, made much similar to the ones Mahakam Dwarves wore. They always knew how to forge the best weaponry and garb indisputably.

Draping a dark gray half-cloak over her shoulders, she swept her black hair out from beneath it and coiffed it into a sloppy bun before fastening the ties of her cloak. Ensuring her boots were laced securely, she threw her sword and scabbard around her hips and began her trek.

It was never certain how far or long she walked. Days bled into weeks, in a figurative sense and literal in others. Several times night came and went before she finally stopped. It was dawn now as she stood alone in a wheat field. A sea of gold coming waist high swayed gently around her, listing like waves under the morning breeze. It was much warmer here with rolling hills that lured her towards a mountain range she'd used as a dead reckoning. She hadn't eaten or slept in a few days. Only walked, and walked, and walked.

It seemed whatever village or town she came across lacked the morally compromised or challenged denizens. Both a blessing and a curse, depending upon the subject. Perhaps south was a poor decision. She'd passed most of the battlegrounds still barren of life, blood atop the soil, decay overcome by the mud and muck. With the war over, the further south she drifted the less wartorn and wounded the land became. On the edges of the killing fields, nature returned with a vengeance, covering the scarred earth with lush greens and towering alders, birches, and oak. A nearby tree screamed and cawed incessantly, the limbs quivering under the mass of blackbirds crowding its branches. An old windmill knocked and rattled as it rotated lazily. Misery stood for a moment, absorbing the sounds and smells as she always did. This land was lovely to behold. She'd been traveling southward over several rivers, passing a variety of ranges and meadows to come here, whatever this place called itself. Of course, this was not her stop. She'd keep going until the land crawled into the sea, but for now, it was time to eat and rest.

In the distance, a sprawling city nestled against a palace of some sort. One of many she'd seen thus far. Fortress, bastions, keeps, and castle. Some hewn by human hands, others etched and engraved by the Dwarves, but this one was more elegant and embellished beyond necessary. Elven⎯if she were a betting lass.

Misery and the prideful race that were Elves had a few things in common.  _A few_. And by that, she meant one. They fell under the same prejudice generously proffered by the humans across every inch of Northern Kingdoms. Even if Misery had round ears and was only a little taller than the average height of a woman. It was that her sharper features-giving her the cold, indifferent visage often seen in foxes. They assumed her to be some sort of halfing derived by a human father and she-elf mother. Unbeknownst to them, there were far graver and more sinister things they could compare her to. None of which looked anything like the fair and beautiful elves.

She snorted, growing irritated by the thought of it all. For now, she had to wait until mid-morning for the denizens of the Beauclair to wake and go about their daily ablutions before she could go scouting. Her stomach gurgled oddly, growing louder and more incessant as the sun crept over the horizon.


	13. The Abyss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wandering the city of Beauclair, Misery searches for a meal.

From Ban Gleann through Velen and on, the landscape was a shocking contrast to this glowing countryside-- as though she’d stumbled upon another world unsullied by war even if the scarred lands were not far off. 

After a wash in a nearby river, Misery’s black hair was down, falling to the mid of her back to dry into its natural curls. Her half-cloak, also cleaned of mud and bracken from the journey, hung from a nearby branch also to dry. A balmy morning bled into a bright early noon while she waited. Colorful songbirds flitting between trees. The road that led her here now bustled, murmured, and knocked with traffic. The din gradually rose into a voiceless drone Misery eventually blocked out of her mind while she readied her weapons and herself. 

At last, it was time. Morning fog burned off, glittering dew now absent, the heat clung to Misery like a stench.

Donning her cloak, Misery tidied the laces and belts absently while she studied the road. Horses, mules, and ox. Well-bred stallions and polished mares crowded the path towards the city. A humble wagon strolled by, importing hay and vegetables from a furlong away. Misery sidled behind them, blending in with the flowing traffic and just as weary. They reached the city, appearing as a collective group-- tired, hungry, and harmless--the driver provided his papers and the knights warranted access to the city with a cheery greeting and nothing more. With her hood drawn, she kept her eyes downcast, watching the churned mud drift beneath her boots Only until the road hardened into sparkling cobblestone did she push the hood back and lift her head.

 The city was as teeming with life. And utterly beautiful. Ripe with happy, tittering drunks whose laughter drifted within the revelry, shining with glittering fountains, and aromatic hints of infinite wine. Wealthy, pristine, and manicured. It made Misery sick with envy. Music and sweet fragrances permeated the air as unavoidable as the blistering sun that cast the entire city in a shimmering gleam. This place seemed unnaturally...perfect.

Brushing her cloak back from her shoulders, Misery wiped the sweat from her brow and eyed a bakery with its opened French doors, warm spices and tantalizing aromas flowing on the breeze to tease passing patrons. A painter catcalled her, waving an eager hand and gesturing towards a stool, where she would sit while he painted her.

She ignored him, already dead set on the bakery. Drawing closer, a display of bread, desserts, and pies awaited her hungry eyes. One particular tart topped with fruit caught her attention. Her hollow stomach groaned for more than a few blackberries and custard, but it would suffice for now.

 "Good morning, Madame!" The baker ambled into her view; a charming man with a taut apron straining around a hearty, but tender girth. No doubt the result of living as a pastry chef. A younger man covered in flour emerged from the back carrying a tray of more delicacies. Their eyes met, a warm brown against her piercing black, gave her a sheepish smile before setting down the desserts and lingering. Eavesdropping.

 "Good morning," she replied, gesturing to the tarts. "Three of these, please."

 The baker wrapped the two of desserts in cloth and passed the third directly to her. "You look ready to sink your teeth into one," he chuckled. _How right he was._  She hadn’t eaten in days and crammed the entire tart in her mouth. The baker gawked.  Misery paused. For a moment, she feared that she’d flashed him her fangs, but they hadn’t fled for their lives yet. It was her lack of manners. Never the type to savor her food in a series of small bites, she wasn't raised by a polished nobleman; she was raised by a hunter in the far-flung reaches of the Mahakam foothills between cursing Dwarves and haughty humans, but they didn't know that.

 Fishing several shillings from her pocket, she dropped them into his pudgy palm. He looked down, counting with a frown.

 "This is too much," he murmured, fingering four extra shillings. "Did you mean─?"

 She nodded, unable to speak around a mouthful of sweet creme bulging her cheeks. The tart was delicious, but she wanted more than just a morsel; she wanted information about this place, something other than a tart to fill her belly.

Chewing quickly and licking the crumbs and fruit juices from her lips, she asked."What can you tell me about this city?"

 

* * *

 

As she expected, an ancient Elven city shored up the present day Beauclair. The city kept with the theme, but many of what remained of the Elder architect before was nothing but ruins now. South had led her right into Toussaint, _where tradition was sacred._ By the pale stones, intricate spires, and ornate carvings designed into arches and window paneling, Misery could see this city was once even more breathtaking than it currently proclaimed. But even the cleanest, most ostentatious locations withheld dark, horrible secrets and she was here to sniff them out or at the very least, drive it out into the light for all to see.

She checked the notice boards, finding nothing of use besides several warnings from their head duchy. There was only one word she looked for and it wasn't there. She moved on, waiting until dusk before heading to the outskirts. If she wanted to find the criminal and indecent, it was where the shadows were thickest. Misery was almost to the edge of Beauclair when she realized she was being followed. Slipping into a shadowy recess beneath a trellis overgrown with flora, she watched a tall figure drift past moments later. At the end of the street, they paused, confused, and glanced about.

She sniffed, smelling beyond the poppies and jasmines draped around her head and detected...eggs and flour⎯the baker's boy. Sighing, she stepped out, propping her hands along her hips as he turned, startled by the sound of her loud footsteps.

"Hello,” he breathed, slightly winded from the pursuit. “I'm no good at this. Following you was a bad idea. Forgive me. I-I was hoping to get your name.” From here, the sound of his whooshing blood made her dizzy, but she kept her distance and her guard. Already Royal's voice slipped into her thoughts. Misery tilted her head while she studied him. Was Beauclair that small? That even one face amongst many stood out? Or was this one of many soon-to-be instances where she needed to handle her business with keen precaution?

He cleared his throat and fidgeted for a place to put his hands. Finally, he dropped them to his sides with an aggravated huff, "Guess I'll start," he stepped forward, closing the distance to offer his hand. "My name's Kaleb."

She sized him up before taking it. "Misery." He smelled human. Though he attempted to offer a firm and strong handshake, if she squeezed hard enough, she could have shattered his fingers.

 "Misery? Pretty."

_Liar._

 She shrugged, "It's a little dark to be attempting to court girls, isn't it?" Misery lifted a brow. "What would your father think?"

 Kaleb gave a breathy chuckle. "If I were courting you, yes. But I was afraid you were just passing through⎯"

" _I am_."

 "⎯and I didn't want to miss the opportunity to speak with you."

Misery held her retort.

"I'm sorry,” he continued. “You said you wanted to know more about the city and you look like someone who could help me."

 Misery lifted a brow. "Why would you think that?"

 "Well, the vambraces and greaves for starters. All the weapons you carry. You look like⎯," he sighed, searching for the keywords. "I don't know. A hired killer? Are you not a mercenary?"

Misery never thought about that before, never tried putting a name to her antics other than culling and⎯more importantly⎯ _surviving._ It was certainly something to consider.

"No, and if I were...who are you trying to kill?"

Kaleb cast a quick look around him before gesturing towards the shadows beneath the trellis she had hidden earlier. She followed him without question, comfortable with the knowledge she could overpower him if things went awry. Once under the safety of the concealing shroud, Kaleb spoke soft and low. "Over a year and a half ago, someone orchestrated an attack on the city. Vampires en masse took to the streets, burning buildings, capturing and killing anything with a pulse. Beauclair was utterly devastated, outwitted, and many lives were lost that night." He had Misery's undivided attention now. "Her Illustrious Grace's own sister was slain. No one was spared of the creatures, it seemed.”

 "Vampires are not real," she murmured absently; a quiet lie. “They’re fabled beings conjured to explain humans and their cruelty. Gave it a name. Men and monsters; they’re one in the same.”

 Kaleb shook his head, "I once thought much like you until I saw the streets running red. Vampires _are_ real. This, I assure you."

 Misery looked around at the quiet streets. The soft glow of lamplights illuminating windows of quiet homes; a fountain gurgled softly a few paces away. The poppies and jasmines draped around their heads painted a serene setting, even amidst the nightfall. Aside from the flora, the only other sweetness in the air was Kaleb’s fear. Nothing cracked or broken, not even debris. It didn't appear to her Beauclair had suffered such an attack. But why would he make this up? Why would he risk his life to follow Misery, armed to the very teeth, just to pull a silly adolescent prank?

 "It seems the town recovered nicely," she murmured. "But get to the point: what do you want?"

 "I still believe vampires remain in the city despite the orders to leave," he said solemnly. "During that night, I barricaded myself within the shop. During the night, I saw a woman rush by. She was surrounded, mind you, outnumbered and _unarmed._ However, none of the beasts attacked her. They watched her go, treated her as if she were one of their own. I know some can look just like us. They blend in, eat and drink like us. But they are _nothing_ like us.” Kaleb held her stare. A warm brown that reminded her of melting chocolate. He was looking at her differently than what she was used to-- as an equal, as a human. Only Royal looked at her like that.

Misery crossed her arms again, pinning him with a look as if to say _go on..._

"Her name is Orianna and she owns an orphanage," Kaleb paused, lowering his voice gravely, "I also believe she feeds on the children."

Misery blinked. 

_A vampire feeding on children._

As his words sank into her, her blood roiling like a spitting cauldron, her canines stabbed her gums to get free. Not so long ago, she had been an orphan as well. Lost, abandoned, left to die by the elements if it were that easy--if fate had been that generous. She put herself in their shoes: a confused, unloved creature used as nothing but means to feed and satiate. It was unfathomable, reprehensible. For a moment, Misery forgot she was standing in the darkness with a young boy, in a foreign city with an empty stomach. From one unfortunate circumstance to another. As far as her parents went, she hadn't a clue their whereabouts. Alive? Dead? Not a day past she didn’t wonder, didn’t seethe and didn’t hate them for not loving her. And here were other children, likely placed in similar or even worse conditions, bitten and cast aside when no longer needed. Perhaps they'd been stolen and forced to forget they even had parents. 

Misery felt a stinging in her palms and relaxed her clenched fist. Blood trickled down her fingertips onto the cobblestone. Kaleb didn't notice.

 “I’ll look into it,” she stepped away, his thundering heart now a hammer against her skull that became harder to ignore. Or was that her own?

Tonight, she told herself. _Tonight, I will feed._

_I will show Orianna what it feels like._


	14. Hiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Misery closes in on her prey, she learns she is not the only predator hunting the vampire.

Beyond the dark road, was the estate: the orphanage, though it looked more foreboding then one would expect a home filled with children, even unloved ones. The jaunt was short albeit the quieted area in which Orianna resided felt different, almost wrong. And like the estate, it smelled wrong, too. Rust, leather, and… she cringed as an acidic tang of poison stung her nose. Something to keep the children from fighting back?  Perhaps they were put to sleep whilst she fed on them.

Misery drew up short, maintaining a careful distance from her prey. A moment passed, then two. Unease slithered down Misery’s spine as Orianna stepped into her house and closed the door, leaving Misery out in the unnatural silent night with its eerie quietness and chemical fetor. She strained her ears, pushing the limits of her senses and found nothing. Another chill coursed through her, but not from the anticipation of the hunt but something else...

Another chill licked her spin.

_She was no longer alone._

And like that, Misery moved, dispersing as wisps of writhing shadows, barely detectable under the shimmering moonlight as she headed for the only suitable cover nearby: a dilapidated barn. When her boots touched the softened hay, she peered back out into the night through the gaps between the slats. If Kaleb had followed her here if he thought he could witness what he believed was some type of action. Misery swore under breath, unable to finish the thought.

An empty night awaited her scrutiny. Not a soul wandered the roads nor lurked the shadows--none that she could see but certainly sensed. Still, she searched and listened, knowing someone was out there. That stupid human boy. How could he hide from her? Misery stepped back, cursing silently. Her target was inside the main house, more than likely feeding on a child right this moment and she was stuck in a barn because of Kaleb. She was going to wring his fucking neck. Another quick survey of the neglected barn revealed an upper level where she could find a better viewpoint. Stepping towards the window, she peered through and it was that moment, someone began to sing.

The vampire had returned.

Hunkered low, Misery watched as Orianna strolled across the expanse of her yard towards the shallow bluff that abutted the lake where waves crashed softly, hushing as the presence of the vampire neared. A fat full moon danced across its surface like liquid silver. _Kaleb is out there._ That ignorant boy. And now Orianna was stalking the shadows. One could very easily cut down the other. Having never taken on a vampire, Misery wasn’t certain she could react fast enough to remove him from harm’s way. Frustration had her flexing her jaw. Torn between maintaining her concealment and turning herself into a distraction so that the dolt could flee back to the city, Misery strained her sense once more. Flour and eggs couldn’t be found. Only leather, blood, and that foul, lingering poison. Where in the seven hells was he?

“Nice tune,” a very gruff voice interrupted softly. “Been a while since I heard it last.”

 _Not Kaleb’s voice._ Misery stiffened. A voice she'd never heard before.

“Folk’ve forgotten it,” Orianna tossed the item back onto the ground. Misery had to lean forward to see far enough out of the window. Enough to spy the crown of silver hair down below, the two swords strapped to his broad back. Only then did the smell of leather and the stinging poison greet her abruptly. It wasn’t Kaleb, she realized in relief. But who the hell was this? How many were hunting this vampire? Misery’s competitive side reared a stupid head. This was her kill; this was the head that would allow her through the gates of the Beauclair Palace.

“Got other things on their mind,” the newcomer muttered, coming to a slow stop as Orianna began to unravel her coiffed auburn hair. The tresses pouring like crimson silk down her back and shoulders.

“Things like me?” Orianna asked sweetly, glancing over her shoulder as she began to unbutton the front of her gown. While one man’s sword remained sheathed, the other hung down at his side. Misery gritted her teeth, swearing profusely in her mind. This was her kill.

“I warned you,” he said, taking another slow calculated step towards the vampire.

“Time’s past,” she smiled faintly, “No amount of coin could convince a witcher to take this contract.” There wasn’t enough time to react to her realization for Misery’s eyes grew wide as the vampire's voice warped in a deep, hellish chord.

“Time’s changed,” the witcher whispered.

The vampire’s gown slid from her shoulders, revealing smooth pale skin, despite the cold, and ample breasts.

And like Misery, she was there, then she was gone just as the barn doors beneath her burst open, meaning Orianna had come to her.

* * *

Sword already drawn, Misery pressed herself against the closest wall, becoming more shadow than woman. Now caught in the midst of what was soon to be a fight, she held her breath and waited.

Still, the barn was silent.. if not empty. She cursed in her head, over and over. At Kaleb for asking too many damn people for the job; Orianna for being simply Orianna; the damn witcher for his sudden and uninvited arrival. More specifically, she chided herself for agreeing so quickly without asking enough questions.

 

The barn doors groaned open; a shadow traced in moonlight stretched across the dirt and hay. _Shit_ , Misery shut her eyes and steeled her breathing. Where was Orianna? She needed to plan quickly. Observe, fight, or flee. Perhaps they could fight each other to death and leave the spoils of their strife to Misery. It would be an easy coin and a way to show the duchy her clever works; a dead vampire _and_ witcher. Unless something awry happened, there was no need for Misery's involvement. Still, she had checked the notice boards as soon as she came to Toussaint as part her of routine.  _Avoid area's that are requesting witchers,_ Royal had instructed. In the event she did find a contract, she tore it down and moved on. So why was he here? Had she overlooked a contract?

The witcher stepped in, striding deeper into the quiet barn where more than just one predator lurked. Misery prayed. _She_ _prayed--_ of all people--that he didn’t look up and see her through the loft's wide gaps, armed with a sword and maddened determination in her eyes.

He didn’t--instead--detached an item from his belt, paused, then flung it into the air. What followed had both bloodsuckers howling. This time Misery was unable to stay quiet--or still. She shrieked as infinitesimal shards of silver glittered in the air and scrambled back, unaware of the loft’s edge until she plummeted to the barn floor. The ground flew up and slammed into her. Then Chaos erupted. Immobilized, she listened as the barn fell into a chorus of clashing steel and deadly snarls. Inept, unnoticed, and stunned, Misery forced air into her lungs and worked her legs, pushing herself up from the hay she landed upon.

Straight ahead, the lithe witcher whirled with his sword; the vampire savagely with her fangs and claws. Neither able to land a blow or exploit a weakness. Once again, Misery’s indecision left her standing like an invalid. She couldn’t see Orianna, but the stinging fragments of silver clung to someone’s figure and that left only one other person. Sparks flew as claws and sword clashed. With each blow deflected the vampire wailed until she stepped fully into the moonlight. A sinewy, hideous creature with a feral smile and long, sharp fangs. Yellow teeth, the chapped leering mouth. The children. The orphans, _caught between those teeth, drained of blood, kissed with those lips_ _._ Fury blinded Misery as she launched herself forward with a howl. But missed. And missed again. The witcher caught the vampire by the throat and hauled her up and over, slamming the naked figure onto the floor. He drove his sword down but the tip met only dirt and hay. He staggered back, holding his side as he bumped into Misery. The smell of fresh blood surged through her nose, filling the barn like perfume. She steeled herself. They had one common goal now: **kill the vampire.**

They both rotated, pressing their backs into one another whilst scanning the shadows.

A wagon launched up from the opposing side of the barn. Misery darted back but the witcher remained. As it hurtled through the air, a blinding membrane of golden light swelled around him. The wagon crashed into it, spewing splinters and broken wheels that barreled right into Misery. Despite her efforts to block or even evade, there was too much debris to dodge. Broken wood slammed into her, forcing her to meet the ground once more. Time slowed. Perhaps she was outmatched in this after all. Her first vampire; _her first Witcher_. Neither have even offered a passing glance as if she wasn't there or worthy of acknowledgment. She laid there, grimacing, bleeding, and of all things, humiliated. A sword scattered across the floor to lay beside her. Not her sword, she realized the moment the vampire raked her claws across his face, whirling the witcher off balance. Taking a hold of him, Orianna began to slam the male against every surface she could find. When she released him he fell paces away, indicating it was either time to watch him die or rise and kill the vampire herself. Misery made her decision.

As she kicked the sword back towards him, the vampire raced up behind the witcher, took firm hold, and sank her fangs deep into his neck.

The satisfying squelch of punctured flesh and gushing blood hypnotized Misery, her own fangs throbbed, vision wavering. Orianna shoved him away, agleam with predator’s triumph. The witcher sank to his knees. But all Misery could smell was blood; his blood. Taken from him. Like Orianna took from the children. The orphans. Misery; an orphan. In the surmounting hunger, she found herself again. Before the metallic tang could seduce her drag her back down, Misery moved. Emerging from a dense swirl of black smoke, she drove the entire length of her sword through Orianna’s whilst grabbing a fistful of auburn hair. She wrenched it aside and buried her teeth violently.

The first swell of blood tasted divine. The second burned, the third… Misery ripped free and stumbled back, freeing her sword upon her retreat. Poison. Poison in …. Her insides grew hot, throat constricting as the toxic blood coursed her veins like liquid iron. Both women felt it while their veins darkened and visages turned a sickly pallor. Misery stuck a finger down her throat and hurled at once. Black pulp splashed on the barn floor but the burning remained, melting her insides.

Misery sank to her knees, unable to breathe or even shift in shadows. She was drowning in it, in agony, clawing at her throat and chest, gasping for air. The witcher rose wearily. At that moment,  Orianna felt it too and bellowed her pain-stricken rage. A concussive blast shot from the witcher's finger, sending Orianna flying across the barn into a pillar. She landed ineptly on her bare feet, and charged in a crouch, swiping and hissing. Misery tried to move out of the way but failed.

Out of the fight, Misery watched through stinging eyes as the battle shifted in the witcher’s favor. Orianna, poisoned and weakening, lost an arm in an attempt to rip out his throat. He backhanded her before the severed limb even reached the floor. With all odds unfavorable, the vampire fled. As the barn doors flew open once more, flooding the interior with the moon's glow, two arrows found their mark in Orianna’s back as she fell past the threshold and into the moonlight. Her skin softened, the wild errant auburn hair smoothed into a glossy mane. The black veins still a repulsive mar on her flawless, dying figure thinned but did not vanish. She crawled feebly on her hands and knees, burning from the inside, bleeding from her arm and back until finally, she slumped onto the ground.

Misery shoved her fingers into her throat and hurled up a content that was neither blood or anything natural.

The witcher strode past. A trickle of blood, either from his nose, mouth, or face, created a path as he passed Misery still kneeling on the floor, still ignored.

Until, he paused, and looked down at her.

“Thanks,” he spoke tightly, but softly, before heading for the barn doors.


	15. The Hound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After surviving her first encounter with a vampire and a witcher, Misery continues her mission: delivering the body of Orianna to Anna Henrietta herself.

Misery lost track of time. Alone in the quiet and now destroyed barn, every breath lanced her lungs, every shudder a claw down her limbs and back. _Gods above and Devils below_ ; she'd never felt such agony. Her body was trying to fight the foreign affliction. And to think Orianna had kept fighting despite the pain. What did that make Misery? Unequipped for the task?

 By the first blushes of dawn, she felt somewhat better, albeit far from full recovery. That would take something other than time. Rising on trembling legs, Misery grabbed her sword and limped out into the cool, foggy morning. Expecting to be to be alone, she found the witcher and Orianna just beyond the barn doors,  side by side.

 One faced down, and dead; the other supine and unconscious, but _alive_. Even with her senses, his heartbeat was soft and slow. He’d passed out just moments after walking out..

 Misery paused...

If there ever were a time to stare at a witcher comfortably, it was now. A figure almost mythical in nature, Royal had woven a tale to warn his daughter; a bedtime-story terror he hoped would keep her from the innocent. Perhaps it was the reason he wanted her to focus on the guilty and corrupt, as if this small principle would spare her the witcher's blade.. if their path's ever crossed.

It had worked. A witcher was one of the few things Misery worried about. She’d be lying to say fear wasn’t intertwined with curiosity. 

_But now..._

Taking a closer step, she came to realize he was _just a man._ Exactly what had she expected? A map of scars covered what pale skin she could see, certainly. Rough for wear, bound in fitted leathers, riding boots, and an array of weaponry that made Misery even stop and stare. Certainly lethal and tenaciously clever given that he poisoned his blood before taking on a vampire, but what else? 

There were no fangs from what she recalled, or claws.

What else…?

Misery tilted her head as she eyed the wolf medallion around his neck that seemed to shiver and tremble.

So _this_ was a witcher; so much talk and fear over this. She tried to smirk but found all her energy went into staying upright, to not collapse on the dirt beside them.  How would the world respond if she killed him here and now? Would they gasp in shock or awe? Would ballads be sung of her perilous campaign or worse? Would she take his place as a bedtime-story terror?

 Before his pale hair had been silvered by the moon, now dawn revealed strings of gold and ember betraying hair utterly white and devoid of pigment. A matching beard flecked in blood and dirt framed a strong jaw. Blood trickled from his nose and mouth. A small pool slowly collected under one side. She looked lower. A meat hook rested in one hand. Yes, he was a sight. She glanced at the dead vampire and back at the meat hook, putting the two together with a curious brow. Was this some type of sport?

Misery watched the coming dawn for a long and quiet moment then cast another lengthy look towards the palace perched across the expanse of undulating hills. Strange how a place could be so beautiful while at her feet lay a dead vampire and a _witcher_. How many days… weeks… months or even years went by while Orianna fed from her orphans? How many died? 

Misery shut her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Her insides still felt like shit. She still felt like shit and even opted to hack off Orianna's head and deliver it to the duchy here and now. As far as the witcher, If Misery had any say in the matter, he would remain here and let fate deal the cards. He was not her problem.

 Still, a little voice _insisted._ Her own stubbornness refused to acknowledge what exactly, even if somewhere in the recesses of her mind she knew the answer. The witcher hadn’t saved her life; she hadn’t saved his either. But if she were to guess, it was a blessing he had been there, to take the brunt force of Orianna’s abilities and strengths.

  
Considering from the look of it, Misery didn’t know a thing about killing vampires.

* * *

 

When Geralt woke he was not laying before the neglected remains of a forgotten barn, nor was the corpse of Orianna beside him. There was a roof over his head, bandages across his naked torso, and a soft pillow beneath his head. Sensing another, he turned his head and glared through the receding sleep. 

"Where am I?" he croaked..

“The Pheasantry Inn,” the stranger answered stepping away from the window.

 Geralt made an attempt to sit up, wincing as he moved while keeping an eye trained on the woman. _Damn.._ She’d taken him too far into Beauclair or Toussaint for that matter. He wasn’t supposed to be here, let alone this close to the palace where someone might recognize him.

"Did anyone see me?" he added. If that were the case, he would have been seized by now and handed over to Anna Henrietta herself, then thrown into the gaol. "Never mind that. What did you do with Orianna’s body?"

She glared over her shoulder at him, allowing the curtain to fall into place. The hard gild of his eyes held her challenging pools of black. Vampires with their dark eyes, dark clothing, and brooding disposition. In times like these, he thought they would at least try to blend in with humans.

 “I gave her to the duchy," she said, crossing her arms.

 “ _You did_ _what?”_ Geralt coughed.

“You heard me,” she said tightly, baring her pointed teeth. “She was _mine._ ”

Already he said too much, asking if he'd been spotted told her he was.. not where he should be. And once the duchy investigated the remains, Her Illustrious Grace would no doubt surmise the slashes and sickly symptoms as witcher-work.  Not only a vampire but one hunting her own kind. Not the strangest occurrence he dealt with but nonetheless uncommon. Perhaps she was a lover scorned or seeking territory. If so, why Orianna and not the Unseen Elder?

 "Funny,” he fixed her a flat look. “I only recall you getting in the way. Plus, your help was unwanted and unnecessary."

 “Enough,” she said wearily, “I’m not afraid of a witcher or his words. You're merely another smelly old man with a complex. Had I not…” she paused, drawing in a shaky breath, “...had I not brought you here and patched you up, you wouldn’t be here behaving so ungratefully.”

 _Doubtful_ , he wanted to say. This was all part of the territory. Even if she were right, it didn’t change the fact that the amount of coin he could have received from Orianna’s contract was lost for good, the same gold he wished to give to the orphans. Still, there was some victory now that they were safe and no longer under Orianna’s clutches. He could scrounge something together. Perhaps teach them to fight and fend on their own. Not all were toddlers and infants; some were old enough to assume the role of caretaker.

 “I also found a contract folded in your gambeson," she muttered, reaching beneath the folds of her cloak to toss a medium sized bag at his feet. The sound of tinkering coins graced his ears.

 He stared at the glinting pieces of gold peeking through the opening. "You said you handed the corpse to the duchy."

 "And I did."

 He picked up the coin purse, weighing it in his palm. Her familiar black eyes not only watched him but studied him meticulously. Every detail stashed away for later examination. "Without the body, how did you get paid?"

She smirked mysteriously, though it didn't lessen the discomfort in her predatory gaze. The veins around her bruised mouth were dark and apparent, spreading outward across her cheeks and down her neck. Though they weren't as dark as a lethal dose, it was enough to disable her until she went beneath the ground and recovered.  

Or fed... 

Geralt placed the coin purse aside and eyed her. "I can fix that."

 "Fix what?"

 "The poison."

 "Your help is unwanted and unnecessary," she said quietly, venomously. "Should anyone ask, _I_ killed Orianna. I won't alert the duchy you were ever here as long as you don't repeat anything you saw last night."

 Geralt said nothing.

 She made for the door before pausing. "One more thing, witcher," her voice held a threatening note beneath the surface. “It’ll suit us both if we never cross paths again...”

 

* * *

  
  
Misery knew...

At least..., she knew _enough_ and gathered very quickly why the witcher was barred from entering Toussaint territory. Even if it came as pieces needing to be separated and assembled like broken glass. Once the physically effects of the black blood faded, she was able to cull memories from Orianna’s blood. There were still traces of the witcher’s, she believed. The memories, however, were so surmounting, so quick to arrive and flee in between, it was difficult capturing them in time. She clung to anything, sifting through centuries of nonsense, tragedies, and betrayals, picking apart what was the vampire’s recollection and what might have belonged to the witcher. A daunting and confusing task, especially with so little blood and a mixture at that. But enough had been obtained to have an idea.

Whilst the man slept, she considered culling his blood directly. However, after watching what he did to Orianna, Misery decided against it. Granted, she would have loved to understand his swordplay, the magic dancing at his fingertips, and the alchemy he used to poison himself without dying, but the risk out weighed the reward.

And while she hadn't actually delivered the body to the duchy _yet,_ she would be sure to ask just _what_ had happened to warrant such extremes. Moreover, what was the Duchess’ side of the story?

Midthought, Misery leaned over the harbor wall to vomit.  A black and foul-smelling liquid splashed into the waters below before disappearing into the slow current. Despite this, most of her ailments were diminishing. There was the same dull ache wrapped in hunger for more than what food could provide. Yet, it was still too early to hunt for a lackey or criminal. Furthermore, the longer she remained in Beauclair the more it appeared she came to the wrong countryside. Too pretty, too sunny, too drunk and happy were the majority of the gregarious denizens of this entire damn country.

Misery ran a hand through her black hair while using the other to wipe away the mix of black and red blood. She was so tired. Hungry and tired. What a concoction. Battling a vampire, if you could call it that, and dragging a grown man into the city under darkness...

Too much time had passed; she was done waiting.

* * *

 

It was time to introduce herself to the duchy. Under normal circumstances, entering the palace would have been a considerable challenge. Under Misery's unorthodox pursuit, she intended to not only get into the castle undetected but drag a corpse with her. An impression was to be made. Wars were planned and executed in courts like this. Meekness was not Misery’s specialty but her typical quiet demeanor wasn’t going to impress this ducal court or any court at all. Especially one beneath an empire.

A boat off the shores of Orianna's reprehensible estate carried her concealed body into the city. Kept under close observation while it drifted down the channel by dusk, Misery moored it beneath the stone bridge that led onto the palace grounds and hauled the body out. Winded and sweaty, she sank onto the muddy bank next to the vampire's remains with a huff.

From the bits and pieces of Orianna’s lengthy memory, Misery still wasn’t sure what was real and what was the toxins manipulating her mind. Blood would solve this. Warm, clean blood. It would alleviate the pain, restore her senses to peak performance, and satisfy the hunger pangs. The question was who?

At once, Misery interrupted the thought before it could form into a nefarious plan. Her hunger was wearing her conviction down. There would be plenty of blood for her once the Duchess enlisted her help. And she _would_ ask for Misery’s help. Her life depended on it.

The innards of the palace were as suspected; a broad throne room that opened out over a sharp cliff where below, its court could watch over the sleeping town. It was not empty either. Under the night sky, torch-glow revealed several guards posted up near the entrances and roaming about.

Misery had made it this far as a black mist, tracing the thick shadows and hiding within dark inserts and shaded alcoves.

Emerging from the shadows, she dumped Orianna onto the pristine flagstone; a repulsive squelch of deadweight and body fluids. A startled guard to her right swore under his breath, at the same time, drawing his sword as well as the attention of the other sentries. Misery lifted her chin and straightened her back. She was breathing heavy, exhausted from the constant shifts between material and immaterial alongside hauling a dead body.

"What in Lebioda's name is this?" a guard to her right balked.

"My name is Misery Black," she began right away, surprised by how steady her voice carried. "I hail from the North; Ban Gleann to be exact. I've come a long way you see. But with me, I have brought an array of talents I know will be useful to your court... and to your Duchess."

"And what have you brought now?" another guard interjected. "A sort of carcass? What are those stains? And that smell?”

 Misery bent down, pulling the sack's opening wide. Matted red hair clumped with blood and dirt spilled out of the sack followed by the carcasses unmistakable identity. Several guards stepped back, swearing and covering their mouths.

" _What have you done?_ " the first knight gasped.

Misery stared at the corpse with a frown, having forgotten Orianna's features had reverted back to her more digestible, human-like physiognomy. Still, her blood could be commanded. Dead or alive, blood was blood and Misery had already corrupted it once. With a subtle glance, she forced the vampire's soft lips to thin into a snarl, baring teeth that grew sharp and long. Her eyelids fluttered whilst her features twisted into a feral leer.

"A vampire," one gasped, brandishing his sword to his forefront. "And she's still alive?"

"It's the trick of the moon," Misery murmured, leaning down to replace the sack over Orianna's head. "It changes their features when exposed to its shine." A lie, decidedly, but a successful one for the guards loosened up and returned their swords to their sheaths.

“Nasty little things, aren’t they?” a third knight whispered.

"Orianna was a dear friend to Her Illustrious Grace," the presumed leader continued, “she will be devastated to learn of her true nature."

“I was devastated to find vampire’s still hiding within this beautiful country,” Misery stroked their pride. “I was under the assumption after what happened… they were banished.”

There was a collective nod and murmuring about the horrors that befell their homestead. She eyed each of them carefully, reading their darkened expressions and pinched lips.

“Tell me what happened,” she said softly, “Tell me everything and I’ll do what I can to hunt them all down and bring them before the Duchess just like I brought you Orianna. “

* * *

“You’ve done more in a single night than it took a contracted killer to do in several weeks.” The young knight muttered. "As hard as it is to believe, I've seen stranger things."

Misery, as exhausted as she was, could only nod as he sat across from her. A fire basked the well-furnished room in gold, but the heat was becoming too much. Her leathers and cloak were stifling and her throat felt dry. Not to mention, her head was pounding.

“Her Illustrious Grace had summoned the help of a witcher; a trained killer; master swordsman,” he continued. “Mind you, while the body count continued to rise, his presence had just, in fact, opened the door for more sinister things to come through. Vampires were one thing; summoning a witcher had only fueled the fire.”

Misery sat back and crossed her legs at the ankle, eyes growing heavy. A glass of wine and a basket of fresh bread awaited her but she wasn’t sure her stomach could keep it down.

“Vampires seized the city in minutes. Blood ran in torrents down the streets and the screams of the dying deafened our ears. When we needed the witcher the most, he came. But he brought something worse with him. Something who could shift between forms; something worse than a vampire. An eagle then a shadow cat. He had delivered a fiend right into our midst when we were most vulnerable. While the city burned and bleed, the creature unleashed herself upon us.” The knight reached for the wine bottle, popping the cork and drinking straight from it. Misery blinked as the room began to spin.

“The witcher never brought us the head of the vampire who killed her sister. That _beast_ escaped from justice and the witcher took his place in the gaol for obstruction and negligence.”

The man sounded far away. So much so, Misery tried to sit up, instead, the seat from beneath her slipped out and dumping her onto the floor, where the quiet darkness awaited her...

* * *

Misery had passed out. Not quite the fuss she’d aimed for, but it worked. The knight had summoned a small cadre, who then alerted the duchess, painting Misery as a battered warrior in need of an audience. As a result, the duchess decided to come to _her_ instead. Outside her bedroom door, their whispers were muffled but there was a commanding female amongst them.

“See if she’s awake now,” the woman whispered harshly.

The door cracked open just as Misery tried sitting up.

“Aye, Madame?” he met her eyes as he sidestepped, allowing the Duchess to sweep in, prim and posed, before her eyes found the stranger that allegedly slew Orianna.

“ _My gods_ , you look terrible.” Her features softened, taking on pity as if Misery were some wounded animal. “Guards, bring our guest something to eat and drink.”

The Knights snapped to it, dispersing obediently and leaving Duchess and demon in the same room. Though there were still guards on standby.

Her Illustrious Grace took a seat at the bedside, straightening her skirts before saying, “Thank you.”

Misery nodded.

“It breaks my heart discovering Orianna’s horrible deeds, but my country has suffered enough by the hands of vampires. I ordered them out after my beloved sister was... slain. Orianna and her kind had been warned and still, she remained. You have my gratitude…what is your name?”

“Misery…,” she told the Duchess with a dip of her head.

“ _Misery..._ My name is Anna Henrietta and you may address me as such. Now,” she clipped. “Tell me how you managed to bring me a vampire while men born and raised for such a task could not?”

“I am no witcher,” Misery stated evenly, “I’m just a woman trying to make means for herself.”

“Where are you from originally? You possess a Northerner's accent.”

“Ban Gleann, just west of the Mahakam mountains.”

“Hmmm,” Anna Henrietta murmured, “Remarkable feat. Though, I must admit it is disheartening but… the orphanage. I will tend to the children myself.” She lifted a manicured brow, “I’m assuming you want a reward for your efforts?”

Misery stiffened. Her next words would decide her fate. She needed to proceed with caution. “What I want, _Your Grace,_ is to be your _hound._ Give me the name of the vampire who killed your sister, and I will find him. I will do what the witcher did not. I will succeed where he failed.

"This, I promise you.”


	16. Uncharted Territory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anna Henrietta assigns Misery the final tasks: succeed where the witcher failed.

The Duchess Anna Henrietta was not quick to snatch Misery up and employ her. Still, she was expected to prove herself, considering one vampire was not enough to convince the figurehead she was worthy.

Nonetheless, Misery went to work, combing through Beauclair and the surrounding villages, digging up lesser beings but vampires of some vein. It was a daunting, grueling tasks. Each encounter seem to bring her closer and closer to her demise. And each one, she delivered to the ducal court in the same covert fashion. Albeit, some were harder on the eyes. Most actually. Katakhans, bruxas, alps, and ekimmaras--she would later learn... and quickly. In some instances, she had to employ other senses to win the fight. She bled them dry, satiating herself and culling their blood out of more than just hunger, but rage. It took too many mishaps until Misery learned how they attacked. Multiple times throughout the onslaught, she considered giving up and returning to Ban Gleann, but her own stubborn will pulled herself up from the dirt and continued on. In some instances, it boiled down to how fast she could bleed them dry before she bled out herself, in order to heal.

Subsequently, hunting proved markedly easier than before. Now it was clear how they operated as beings and animals; how they claimed and marked their territory; how they behaved as hunters... and as hunted.

Not long into her efforts, Misery had her own estate in Toussaint which, ironically, was Orianna’s abandoned homestead in Hauteville. A shocking transition from vagabond to homeowner that took time to adjust. The deceased vampire was short on nothing, it seemed. With too many rooms to occupy, Misery gave up utilizing each for their own purpose and settled on fashioning the subterranean level into her bedroom and war room where a majority of her time was spent. On one half was a large four-poster bed, a wash vat, and basin made of porcelain, a polished wooden desk, and several bookshelves teeming with literature and repulsive husbandry novels centered around human farms. On the other side was a map covered in notes, pinpoints, and charted and uncharted territory.

While she visited the treasury to tack on more contracts, she'd trespassed upon large redoubts the locals referred to as hanse. These were marked accordingly. Though humans inhabited them, they were quick to attack unprovoked and in droves. Misery did was she does best and dispatched them just as quickly and violently. Only one hanse had been dismantled, however, many more awaited but for now, she focused on the nocturnal beasts Anna Henrietta disdained so. Days turned into weeks, weeks went on. At length, and with great relief, the evening she'd hoped for finally arrived a month in. A knock came to her door that evening where a set of knights awaited her. Providing as escorts, they led her to the Beauclair palace.

Though Misery was unofficially employed, she was still paid by the treasurer for every bounty signed and delivered and now had enough money to feed herself and employ the vampire's abandoned cooks, maids, and butlers in her Hauteville estate. But tonight would determine whether she was deemed worthy of fighting in the name of Her Illustrious Grace as the Ducal Hound. In all her efforts to build a reputation while simultaneously fighting for her life, it was nice to know it hadn't all gone unnoticed.

A small crowd grew as minutes passed while Misery stood in the inner court alone. The knights had left her side to return to their places. The dais was empty but she could smell the duchess perfume not far. In the meantime, Misery spent her time memorizing those that surrounded her. Noblemen and women. Knights, wards, and waiting hands. The palace was every bit Elven inside and out. It was difficult not to admire, considering Misery wasn’t a fan of Elves from the start. Not that they had wronged her in any degree, but because of the snide remarks she grew up hearing, calling her a bastard child of the Wild Hunt despite Royal’s attempts to defend her left negative connotations. She somewhat blamed them, too.

Here though, no one seemed to mind how she appeared. Looking at this beautiful city made by the cruel, prideful Elves--every arc, stone, and palisade designed by their immortal hands kept them warm and dry. And grateful. Misery planted her hands upon her hips and gave the inner court an appreciative glance. Still, she wasn’t an Elf and she didn’t like them either.

At last, the Duchess arrived, popping out of a side room with her favorite knight--the Captain of the Guard. Misery couldn’t recall his name, but that wasn’t saying much. They exchanged stern glances as if she were there to dethrone him from the Duchess’ favor. Odd thing, that.

When the duchess neared, Misery bowed, lowering her eyes onto the pale flagstones beneath her weathered boots.

“Good evening, Lady Black.” Anna Henrietta purred. “You may rise.”

Misery obeyed, one hand wrapped around the hilt of her sword, the other a fist pressed into the small of her back. Heels together, chin up.

“I have seen the progress you've made thus far,” Anna smiled faintly, “I think it’s time for a more challenging task.” She folded her hands, a betraying move Misery had come to learn meant her next words would be difficult to admit.

“As you’ve come to know, not long ago, there was an attack on my beloved city. Creatures of unfathomable terror reigned the streets. I had summoned a witcher when the task proved too daunting even for my Knights-errant; the best, in fact, Geralt of Rivia answered my call.

“He was assigned to hunt what was--at the time--only a beast. Later, I would discover that beast’s name and his relation to my sister, Syanna, as well as more vile creatures amid his repertoire. And when the beast burned my city to ash, he took my sister with it.” The Duchess’ pale eyes glittered, her nails digging into her palms.

“I was shattered," her voice cracked. "Not only had I lost my sister, but the witcher had failed me, leaving my city to ruins and allowing this animal to flee."

Misery felt a shift in the air when all eyes settled upon her. She stiffened and kept a fixed look at Anna.

“Bring _them_ to me so that I may exact justice in Syanna’s name.” Anna’s voice trembled as it deepened with anger. The prim haughtiness she often saw in the duchess was gone. A hardened woman, cracked with grief, stared into Misery, heart pounding too, even if Misery was the only one who could hear it.

“It would be my pleasure, Your Grace.” Misery bowed deeply. “And these... beasts…?" She looked up with questions in her gaze. No one had mentioned there were more than one vampire. How many exactly? If they were anything like Orianna, perhaps she should have drunk from the witcher regardless if it cost her a blade through the torso and a few bruises.

"Yes, beasts," Anna confirmed. "Detlafff van der Eretin and Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy."


End file.
